of  California 
n  Regional 
7  Facility 


DIONYSIUS   THE   WEAVER'S 
HEART'S   DEAREST 


Dionysius  the  Weaver's 
Heart's  Dearest 


BY 


BLANCHE   WILLIS    HOWARD 

AUTHOR  OF  "SEVEN  ON  THE  HIGHWAY,"  "THE  OPEN 
DOOR,"  "GUENN,"  "  ONE  SUMMER,"  ETC. 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1899 


Copyright, 
BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


All  rights  reserved 


JOHN  WILSON   AND  SON,   CAMBRIDGE,   U.S.A. 


Dionysius  the  Weaver's 
Heart's  Dearest 


BETWEEN  the  Danube  and  the  Neckar,  high 
in  the  bleak  hill  country  known  as  The  Rough 
Alp,  perched  the  hamlet  Hexenfels.  Grim 
rocks  grouped  in  evil  counsel  dominated  the 
barren  land;  peasants'  flat  roofs  would  have 
whirled  away  were  they  not  freighted  with 
heavy  stones;  and  nothing  —  man,  mouse,  or 
moss  —  could  well  exist  unless  hardy  enough 
to  defy  the  long  sweep  of  icy  winds  that  bat 
tled  here  with  fury  all  unspent,  though  they 
had  rushed  from  the  far  frozen  north  across  a 
continent. 

Close  behind  the  poor  cottage  of  Dionysius 
the  weaver  towered  the  Witch-Tooth,  a  formid 
able  crag,  sparsely  overgrown  with  patches  of 
straggling  bushes,  vines,  stout  small  leaves, 
and  a  few  flowers  of  undismayed  tempera 
ment.  The  child  Vroni  —  born  naughty  — 


204701.9 


2  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

when  sent  in  the  legitimate  course  of  things 
to  feed  hens  was  wont  to  dash  off  to  the  allur 
ing  rocks  and  loiter  royally.  Climbing  swift 
and  sure  where  seemed  no  foothold  for  a  goat, 
she  busily  would  amass  a  large  store  of  treas 
ures:  leaves,  bits  of  moss,  an  owl's  feather,  a 
trailing  stem  quite  bare  but  good  for  skipping- 
rope,  a  gaunt  wiry  stalk  most  excellent  for  a 
switch,  and  from  the  crevices  pretty  arabis. 
Always  seeking  to  grasp  more,  she  would  let 
fall  and  lose  her  precious  hoard,  since  desir 
able  things  were  legion,  and  of  greedy  little 
hands  she  had  but  two,  — these  indeed  in  great 
demand,  —  as,  monkey-like,  she  clung,  hung, 
swung,  and  lifted  herself  along  her  zig-zag 
course. 

In  midsummer  she  would  venture  high,  and 
higher,  for  gay  wild  pinks,  —  "  weather-pinks, " 
say  the  Suabian  Highlanders,  — until  recalled 
to  earth  by  her  irate  mother  down  below, 
shouting,  when  fate  willed,  against  the  wind, 
and  clapping  soundless  but  portentous  palms. 
The  great  chiding  voice  was  now  so  wee  and 
impotent,  the  powerful  stature  so  unintimidat- 
ing,  the  child  felt  bound  to  stop  short,  hold 
her  sides  and  laugh,  flinging  down  from  her 
cyry  peals  of  wicked  glee  and  mockery,  — 


Heart's  Dearest  3 

floating  haply  on  the  wind,  — •  while  ostensibly 
scrambling  earthward,  yet  never  too  fast  for 
manifold  dalliance  with  brambly  delights. 
Vroni  herself  was  not  unlike  a  mountain 
pink,  —  bold,  lithe,  lawless,  vivid  in  color, 
careless  of  wind  and  weather. 

Perchance  a  stray  goat,  chased  from  afar  by 
some  breathless  peasant  lad,  and  overtaken  at 
last  in  these  witchy  wilds,  first  traced  with 
inconsequent  nibbling  the  site  of  Hexenfels. 
Surely  no  less  erratic,  no  more  responsible 
spirit  ever  could  have  chosen  so  inhospitable 
a  spot  of  earth  for  the  struggle  for  life,  and 
even  a  moderately  well-endowed  goat  ought 
to  have  done  better  for  himself.  Had  the 
place  possessed  conceivable  advantages,  the 
ruins  at  least  of  a  feudal  castle  would  have 
haughtily  affirmed  them.  But  not  even  a 
Potz-Blitz  robber  knight  had  found  it  worth 
while  to  establish  in  this  desolate  region  the 
lofty  and  lineal  seat  of  his  depredations. 

Far  from  the  high-road,  difficult  of  access, 
unmolested  by  tourists,  quite  beyond  the 
strenuous  hum  of  modern  progress,  Hexenfels 
remained  what  it  had  been  for  centuries,  an 
isolated  and  humble  community  of  toilers. 
Thirty  mean  cottages,  or  rather  huts,  with 


4  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

their  clumsy,  stone-laden  roofs;  dulness,  tame- 
ness,  dreariness  beyond  words,  pessimistic 
fowls  slowly  strutting  across  a  dirty  street,  an 
oppressive  torpor,  a  singular  dearth  of  popu 
lation :  in  short,  a  squalid  travesty  of  the 
sleeping  palace  of  enchanted  beauty,  and  noth 
ing  at  all  alive  except  the  mind,  — thus  would 
the  urban  stranger  who  never  arrived  behold 
Hexenfels. 

Yet  here  dwelt  by  no  means  wretchedly  a 
sturdy  folk,  cherishing  with  gallant  obstinacy 
its  bleak  home,  solemnly  tenacious  of  its  pre 
judices,  its  own  social  code,  its  gradations  of 
worldly  dignity,  and  drawing  a  certain  stub 
born  strength  and  pride  from  the  deep-rooted 
traditions  of  an  historic  past. 

No  tyranny  as  to  top  hats  obtained  in  Hex 
enfels,  no  rigid  conventions  as  to  the  color 
and  cut  of  a  man's  coat  at  certain  appointed 
hours  of  the  day,  no  stern  law  as  to  the  width 
of  his  trousers  and  the  angle  at  which  he 
should  shake  hands,  no  Draconic  code  decree 
ing  gloves  or  no  gloves.  But,  in  other  details, 
perhaps  equally  essential  to  the  well-being  of 
humanity  and  the  growth  of  the  soul,  Hexen 
fels  was  not  a  whit  less  arbitrary  than  London. 
The  points  of  view  differed,  that  is  all. 


Heart's  Dearest  5 

Had  you  sought  to  persuade  Vroni  Lindl 
that  her  environment  was  squalid,  her  exist 
ence  joyless,  she  would  have  laughed  in  your 
face.  In  the  earlier  and  peculiarly  unregen- 
erate  stage  of  her  being,  she  might  indeed 
have  startled  you  with  a  response  even  less 
civilized  than  her  impish  laughter,  and  it 
would  have  been  a  hopeless  task  to  convince 
her  that  cooped-up  town  children,  the  misera 
ble  limitations  of  whose  sad  dull  days  afforded 
no  Witch-Tooth  as  background  of  the  uni 
verse,  were  to  be  viewed  with  aught  but  con 
temptuous  pity. 

It  must  be  admitted  of  things  really  worth 
having  she  had  her  share.  The  few  crooked, 
hump-backed,  sour  plum-trees  by  the  back 
door,  —  what  child  worthy  of  the  name  would 
fail  to  perceive  at  a  glance  the  inexhaustible 
versatility  of  those  stunted  and  delightful 
objects?  Round  the  feeble  vegetable  garden 
before  the  front  windows  stretched  a  bris 
tling  unkempt  hedge  of  lilac,  elder,  and  wild 
white  hawthorn,  beneath  which  in  the  spring 
time  she  found  rare  and  most  wonderful  vio 
lets.  In  the  great  pile  of  wood  and  fagots, 
always,  winter  and  summer,  just  beyond  the 
hedge,  she  scooped  dim  and  fragrant  hiding 


6  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

places  and  crouched  breathless,  in  an  ecstasy 
of  mystery,  when  none  pursued.  She  dili 
gently  wove  willow-twigs  into  her  thickly 
wadded  winter  petticoat  to  make  a  most  sur 
prising  crinoline.  The  clayey  soil  which 
sorely  tried  the  patience  of  her  elders  minis 
tered  only  to  her  joy,  for  she  never  wearied 
of  moulding  flowers  and  figures,  and  drying 
them  in  the  sun.  Her  father  smiled  at  her 
creations;  but  her  mother  sniffed  and  called 
them  idle  trash. 

Finding  snails  in  the  woods  after  a  rain  — 
either  for  home  consumption  or  to  sell  at  the 
rate  of  a  hundred  for  twenty-five  pfennigs  — 
also  added  zest  to  her  existence.  Whether 
swinging  in  the  delectable  barn,  or  rioting  on 
the  haymows  in  the  meadow,  or  construct 
ing  fine  couches  of  moss  in  the  forest,  no 
child  was  ever  keener  in  pleasure,  none  ever 
plunged  with  more  tingling  life  and  ardor 
into  the  business  of  the  moment. 

But,  alas,  not  all  the  little  girl's  pursuits 
were  reputable.  Once  with  splendid  though 
misdirected  zeal,  in  sheer  wrath  and  revenge, 
—  a  pure  vendetta  spirit  indeed,  —  she,  aided 
by  another  like  unto  her,  —  it  was  the  "  red 
Lisl,"  —  walled  up  with  stones  and  wood  and 


Heart's  Dearest  7 

earth  two  tiny  casements  suggestively  near 
the  ground,  so  that  a  weeping  and  exasperated 
old  crone  was  obliged  to  light  candles  in 
broad  daylight  when  she  came  home  from 
church.  For  this  enormity — in  spite  of  its 
undeniable  genius,  and  a  certain  classic  sim 
plicity  in  thus  effectually  shuffling  a  growl 
ing  and  meddling  beldam  out  of  sight  as 
if  she  were  a  recreant  vestal  virgin  —  little 
Vroni  received  from  her  good  father  six  dozen 
on  the  hands  with  a  big  pewter  spoon. 

Perhaps  her  most  memorable  exploit  was 
to  set  fire  to  a  heap  of  hemp  and  pith  under 
her  neighbor's,  the  "  Distcl-Baucrs, "  great 
walnut-tree,  which,  the  season  being  dry,  began 
to  blaze  terrifically  and  amazingly,  and  had  to 
be  extinguished  with  buckets  and  hose  like  a 
veritable  house  a-fire.  The  village  children 
naturally  gloried  in  the  flash  of  inspiration 
that  had  created  a  prank  of  such  dimensions; 
but  the  men  and  women  spoke  their  minds 
without  wincing,  —  as  was  the  fashion  in 
Hexenfels.  When  one  dwells  on  wind-swept 
heights  exposed  to  the  ravages  of  a  Vroni 
Lindl,  silence  ceases  to  be  a  virtue,  and  a 
sound  shaking  of  the  culprit,  if  by  good  luck 
you  can  catch  her,  seems  no  more  than  one's 


8  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

duty  to  the  commonwealth.  The  year  of  the 
flaming  walnut-tree  was  perhaps  the  most  agi 
tated  epoch  of  Vroni's  early  chronology. 

She  saw  her  father,  Dionysius  the  weaver, 
—  so  called  in  contradistinction  to  Dionysius 
the  cobbler,  — a  pale  dark  man  in  gray  drill 
ing  clothes,  a  leather  apron,  and  a  soft  black 
cap  with  a  visor,  working  at  his  loom  in  the 
front  room  early  and  late.  Great  piles  of 
bed  linen  and  table  linen  the  father  wove, 
drilling  too,  and  sometimes  linen  for  aprons. 
Only  in  an  emergency  of  harvest,  haying,  or 
sowing,  did  he  join  the  others  in  the  field. 
The  farming  as  well  as  the  work  of  the  small 
household  was  done  by  his  wife,  aided  finally 
by  Vroni  only,  as  the  older  brothers  and 
sisters  went  gradually,  one  by  one,  out  into 
the  great  world,  far  away  from  the  humble 
nest  in  the  shadow  of  the  Witch -Tooth. 

Dionysius,  a  simple  man,  peasant  born,  had 
rather  gentle  ways  and  a  soft  mode  of  speech. 
Some  of  his  neighbors  said  he  was  never 
aught  else.  Others  declared  he  had  learned 
things  in  Vienna,  where,  when  he  was  young 
and  lively  as  a  colt,  he  had  gone  to  live  with 
a  bachelor  uncle,  and  ply  the  weaver  trade. 
It  was  hinted  the  uncle  had  thought  the  world 


Heart's  Dearest  9 

of  Dionysius,  and  meant  to  leave  the  boy  all 
his  money,  but  lost  it  and  died  suddenly, 
nobody  ever  quite  knew  of  what,  or  how,  or 
where,  or  when,  —  and  Dionysius  returned 
to  Hexenfels,  changed  and  "quiet-like,"  with 
nothing  to  say  for  himself.  There  he  re 
mained,  working  steadily  at  his  trade,  mar 
ried  twice,  and  harmed  neither  man  nor  beast. 

Yet  some  pretended,  so  lamblike  as  he 
seemed,  he  had  been  a  rare  wild  fellow  in 
Vienna,  and  he  and  the  young  uncle  naught 
but  a  godless  pair  of  rogues,  weaving  more 
mischief  than  honest  warp  and  woof.  These, 
however,  were  at  worst  dim  and  fluttering 
rumors  such  as  may  follow  saint  or  sinner, 
and  never  really  current  in  the  village;  while 
the  prestige  of  that  all -but-inherited  fortune 
clung  to  Dionysius,  imparted  to  him  a  cer 
tain  romantic  distinction,  and  formed  a  stable 
topic  of  conversation  in  a  community  where, 
as  in  most  rural  districts,  people  conversed 
comfortably  only  upon  oft-digested  themes. 
As  he,  laboring  to  feed  the  many  mouths 
under  his  roof,  grew  ever  paler  and  began  to 
stoop  more  than  his  age  warranted,  they  were 
wont  to  say :  — 

If    Dionysius  the  weaver's  uncle  had  not, 


io  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

etc.,  then  Dionysius  the  weaver  would  now, 
etc.,  etc.,  and  in  spite  of  the  logic  of  facts, 
the  struggling  family  at  the  Witch-Tooth 
seemed  always  in  public  estimation  the  more 
opulent  for  those  fugitive  and  largely  mythical 
avuncular  possessions.  But  in  the  weaver's 
brooding  memories  the  loss  of  money  played 
no  part. 

Vroni  adored  her  father.  He  had  a  way  of 
looking  at  her  with  his  soft  brown  eyes  that 
was  potent  beyond  the  roughest  blustering 
and  sternest  threats  from  other  quarters,  or 
even  than  actual  chastisement.  Worse  still 
was  his  way  of  not  looking  at  her.  That  was 
the  one  punishment  she  could  not  endure. 
That  quite  broke  her  heart. 

All  the  year  round,  her  mother  Agathe, 
bustling  indoors  and  out,  wore  a  loose  drab 
jacket,  a  calico  skirt,  and  a  dark-red  three- 
cornered  kerchief  tied  round  her  head.  She 
was  rough  of  temper  and  tongue,  of  a  discon 
tented,  fault-finding  disposition,  but  transpar 
ently  honest,  thrifty,  cleanly,  self-respecting, 
exacting  much  of  others  but  more  of  herself, 
an  indefatigable  worker,  never  accomplishing 
enough  to  satisfy  her  own  demands. 

While  human  intercourse  seemed  to  evoke 


Heart's  Dearest  1 1 

from  her  chronic  exasperation,  she  displayed 
for  domestic  animals  peculiar  affection  and 
gentleness,  to  which  they  one  and  all  re 
sponded.  Any  music,  even  the  cheapest, 
transformed  her  personality,  moved  her  to 
sudden  and  extreme  gayety,  and  caused  her 
to  throw  all  care  to  the  winds.  But  when 
Dionysius  the  weaver  heard  music,  his  face 
grew  wistful  and  he  remembered  his  child 
hood. 

Even  when  but  a  coltish  little  lass,  Vroni 
knew  instinctively  that  he  was  made  of  finer 
stuff  than  the  rest  of  them.  But  only  in  after 
years,  and  when  too  late,  did  she  behold  him 
clearly  as  he  was:  a  man  loving  justice,  firm 
as  the  crag  when  he  saw  fit,  yet  of  most 
peaceable  intent;  mild,  tolerant,  and  pitiful, 
freehanded,  an  humble  and  unconscious  wor 
shipper  of  beauty,  and  in  affection  fathom 
less. 

Agathe's  greatest  pleasure  was  a  good  sup 
per  not  at  her  own  expense.  His  was  a  quiet 
walk  through  harvest  fields,  —  alone,  or  hand 
in  hand  with  his  little  daughter.  Outwardly 
she  resembled  him,  inheriting  his  slight  frame 
and  small  bones,  his  good  straight  profile,  and 
his  eyes.  But  he  was  pale  from  indoor  life, 


12  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

and  she  all  sunny  glow,  and  what  was  hidden 
in  the  depths  of  the  child,  none  could  discover 
for  the  bewildering  overgrowth  of  pranks  on 
the  surface. 

Agathe  conscientiously  endeavored  to  train 
her  daughter's  turbulence  into  sobriety,  and, 
was  no  colossal  misdeed  convulsing  the  com 
munity,  punished  her,  chiefly  by  reduction  of 
rations,  for  venial  and  chronic  sins:  when  she 
could  remember  not  a  word  of  the  sermon, 
whispered  or  giggled  in  church,  and  loitered 
coming  home  from  school ;  when  she  tore  her 
frock,  stole  sugar  from  the  pantry  or  dried 
apples  from  the  garret ;  when  she  gave  pert 
answers  or  shirked  her  daily  tasks.  These 
even  when  she  was  small  comprised  such 
trifles  as  bringing  in  armfuls  of  wood,  chop 
ping  fagots  short  for  kindlings,  fetching  three 
big  pails  of  water  from  the  brook,  driving  the 
cattle  to  water,  feeding  the  hens,  weeding 
the  salad,  and  scouring  pots  and  pans.  At 
intervals  she  would  dash  out  of  her  orbit  from 
pure  erratic  mischief,  but  a  worker  she  was, 
skilful,  thorough,  and  swift.  Even  Agathe 
admitted  that  in  this  respect  the  little  one 
was  "the  best  of  the  lot,"  —  referring  thus 
graphically  to  two  older  daughters  of  her 


Heart's  Dearest  13 

own,  and  still  another,  Dionysius's  child  by 
his  first  wife. 

Vroni  looked  askance  at  this  half  sister  and 
two  half  brothers,  not  altogether  because  they 
were  grown-ups,  but  chiefly  on  account  of 
their  holiness  as  opposed  to  her  own  flagrant 
naughtiness.  She  took  them  for  saints,  very 
disapproving  saints  it  was  true,  less  gentle 
than  the  pictures  in  her  book,  but  unmiti 
gated  saints  nevertheless. 

Them  too,  and  her  own  sisters,  she  saw 
vividly  only  in  the  long  perspective  of  years. 
Little  enough  did  she  consciously  concern  her 
small  self  with  their  unimportant  personali 
ties.  Yet  even  then  her  spirit  in  autocratic 
child-fashion  was  imperturbably  gathering  and 
sifting  its  own  evidence,  never  the  evidence 
intended  for  and  intruded  upon  it  by  grown 
people. 

Five  great  brothers  and  sisters  were  still 
packed  close  in  the  house  when  she  was  already 
old  enough  to  run  about  and  turn  things 
topsy-turvy. 

First  came  Sebastian,  grimly  religious, 
almost  more  austere  than  any  monk.  Always 
brimful  of  holy  zeal,  he  longed  to  quicken 
cold  hearts  with  fire  and  sword.  Rash,  hot- 


14  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

tempered,  yet  warm-hearted  and  good  when 
not  blinded  by  religious  prejudice,  honest  to 
the  core,  but  that  was  a  family  trait.  False 
hood  was  almost  the  only  naughtiness  un 
achieved,  nay,  unattempted  by  Vroni. 

Sebastian's  tiny  sleeping  place  in  the  gar 
ret  —  room  it  could  hardly  be  termed  —  was 
monopolized  by  a  staring  altar  decked  with 
linen  of  the  weaver's  best  weaving,  a  glossy 
blue  porcelain  Virgin  trailing  a  tinsel  mantle, 
two  unlit  tallow  candles,  some  gaudy  saints 
and  Sacred  Hearts  on  gilt-edged  cards,  gar 
lands  of  arsenic-green  wax  ivy  leaves,  and 
tissue  paper  roses  many-hued.  Yet  honor 
and  praise  to  the  Rough  Alp  man.  His  sort 
is  rare.  His  shrine,  it  may  be,  was  not  beau 
tiful.  But  where  was  room  for  only  bed  or 
altar,  he  sacrificed  his  ease  to  his  ideal,  and 
lay  upon  the  floor. 

The  pious  sister  Anna  was  cold  and  unsym 
pathetic.  In  time  she  drifted  to  the  Swiss 
convent,  St.  Scholastika,  where  she  became 
Sister  Corona,  knew  and  desired  to  know 
nothing  of  this  vile  world,  spoke  in  a  tone 
less  voice,  and  had,  even  as  a  woman  of  fifty, 
the  manner  of  any  unintelligent  child.  Vroni 
better  liked  the  irascible  Sebastian. 


Heart's  Dearest  15 

Melchior  also  was  very  religious  indeed. 
With  eyes  raised  meekly  toward  heaven,  he 
yet  kept  a  pretty  sharp  lookout  on  this  sinful 
world,  was  mindful  of  his  neighbor's  opin 
ion  and  careful  of  appearances,  — a  harmless 
fellow,  so  far  as  a  person  who  tacks  with 
every  breeze  can  in  the  long  run  be  harmless. 
Vroni  grew  to  be  fond  of  him  with  a  half  con 
temptuous  fondness.  But  that  was  in  later 
years  when  he  was  a  king's  coachman,  most 
discreet,  sleek,  and  respectable,  and  she  far 
less,  from  the  social  point  of  view. 

Of  her  own  two  sisters,  one  was  boisterous 
and  quick-tempered  like  the  mother,  went 
away  young  into  service  and  never  came 
back;  while  Marie,  a  gentle  girl,  married  the 
lame  village  tailor  and  soon  had  her  arms  full 
of  ailing  babies. 

Long  after  all  these  great  ones,  little  Vroni 
had  come  into  the  world  like  a  gay  surprise, 
as  if  the  embodiment  of  some  merry  melody 
which  had  floated  across  the  stubbly  fields  of 
her  mother's  laborious  existence;  or  like  a 
fugitive  flash  of  those  old  Vienna  days  of 
which  Dionysius  the  weaver  never  spoke. 

Although  Vroni  seemed  to  set  at  naught 
her  patient,  toiling,  God-fearing  folk,  their 


1 6  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

influence  encompassed  her;  their  stubborn 
peasant  pride,  their  integrity  was  also  her 
inheritance.  They  came  of  good  old  stock. 
All  were  clean-lived  and  dutiful  —  her  father, 
her  mother,  her  great  grown  brothers  and 
sisters.  Her  grandfather  indeed  had  been 
Schultliciss  of  Hexenfels,  which  office  —  mak 
ing  due  allowance  for  differences  of  propor 
tion —  is  equivalent  in  dignity  to  that  of  Lord 
Mayor  of  London.  Her  Tante  Ursula  still 
enjoyed  on  this  account  a  certain  worldly 
prestige. 

Tante  Ursula's  was  one  of  the  few  houses 
which  could  claim  the  high  honor  of  offer 
ing  His  Reverence  breakfast  after  mass. 
Hexenfels,  although  proud  of  its  little  round 
chapel  set  on  a  hill,  was  no  regular  parish, 
but  merely  a  humble  station,  remote,  isolated, 
sometimes  indeed  all  but  inaccessible.  The 
care  of  its  souls  was  assigned  to  two  or  three 
priests  in  alternation  who  came  long  dis 
tances,  often  through  fierce  mountain  gales 
and  blinding  snowdrifts,  for  all  great  feasts, 
for  funerals,  and  usually  on  every  other 
Sunday. 

Mass  was  barely  over  when  Tante  Ursula 
would  hurry  home  to  prepare  breakfast ;  good 


Heart's  Dearest  17 

coffee,  white  bread  and  black,  fresh  honey, 
and  wild  rose  marmalade.  The  floors,  the 
tables  and  chairs  had  been  scoured  white  with 
sand  the  day  previous.  The  one  upholstered 
chair,  never  profaned  by  family  use,  was 
drawn  from  its  repose  to  sustain  His  Rever 
ence.  The  one  china  cup  and  the  one  silver 
spoon,  incredibly  old  but  ever  radiating  a  sort 
of  virgin  splendor,  were  in  readiness. 

It  was  the  privilege  of  Vroni  and  her  rag- 
doll  with  bead-eyes  to  sit  on  a  three-legged 
stool  and  stare  unblinking  at  His  Reverence 
drinking  from  the  good  cup  and  stirring  with 
the  good  spoon.  As  the  same  priests  for  the 
most  part  appeared  year  after  year,  they  grew 
very  fond  of  their  little  nutbrown  companion. 
Each,  after  breakfasting,  would  take  her  on 
his  knee,  smile  indulgently  at  her  un-shy 
jabber,  and  give  the  pretty  rogue  coffee  and 
all  the  sugar  she  wanted.  Emboldened  by 
so  unassailable  entrenchment,  Vroni  obstrep 
erously  churned  hard  bread-crusts  with  the 
precious  spoon,  —  venerable  heirloom,  thin  of 
constitution  and  delicate  as  to  the  throat  — 
cared  not  a  pfiffcrling  for  the  tragic  glances 
Tante  Ursula  was  shooting  at  her  across  His 
Reverence's  tonsure,  rudely  thumped  the  deli- 


1 8  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

cate  cup,  piratically  demanded  and  obtained 
the  forbidden  marmalade,  and  grinned  amica 
bly  with  a  naughty  smeared  mouth  at  her  poor 
aunt. 

After  which  episode,  Vroni  was  invariably 
asked  whom  she  best  loved,  and  unblushingly 
responded  God,  having  learned  this,  like  her 
courtesy  to  her  superiors,  mechanically  in  her 
tenderest  years.  It  is  possible  that  a  strict 
but  unecclesiastical  moralist  observing  her 
goings-on  from  Monday  morning  till  Saturday 
night,  and  on  the  Lord's  own  day  no  less, 
might  have  taken  umbrage  at  this  barefaced 
assertion.  Yet  after  all,  it  was  perhaps 
essentially  true.  Who  knows?  Happily  at 
any  age,  we  are  something  better  than  the 
foolish,  heedless,  mad  things  we  do,  and 
Vroni  through  all  evil  that  befell  her  dearly 
loved  the  light. 

As  far  back  as  she  could  remember  she 
had  been  no  unimportant  part  of  the  pleasing 
ceremony  of  His  Reverence's  breakfast  at 
Tante  Ursula's,  where  through  the  years 
the  selfsame  observances  followed  one  upon 
another  in  regular  sequence.  It  was  there 
fore  not  surprising  that  one  day  she,  a  glow 
ing,  gleaming  creature  of  twelve  or  thirteen, 


Heart's  Dearest  19 

and  growing  very  fast  at  that  time,  came  con 
fidently  to  her  clerical  friend,  —  it  was  the 
youngest  priest  and  the  one  she  loved  best, 
—  sat  herself  upon  his  knee,  flung  her  arm 
round  his  neck,  and  began  her  free  and  inno 
cent  chatter. 

But  Father  Aloysius  very  gently  put  her 
down,  and,  patting  her  hand  kindly,  said  she 
was  rather  large  now  for  the  old  baby  ways, 
would  soon  indeed  be  as  tall  as  Tante  Ursula. 
He  continued  in  this  wise,  affectionately, 
smiling  always,  but  to  the  child's  dismay 
calling  her  Ve-ro-ni-ka. 

Vroni,  her  eyes  fixed  unwavering  upon  his 
face,  stood  and  scowled  in  silence,  deprived 
of  her  rights,  angry  with  herself  for  being 
big,  uncomprehending  and  incredulous;  until 
suddenly  a  strangely  vague  discomfort  seized 
her,  she  flushed  violently  and  fled,  unheeding 
the  priest's  friendly  call  and  Tante  Ursula's 
horrified  remonstrance. 

In  this  way  and  at  this  moment  wild  Vroni 
was  ashamed  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
yet  knew  not  why,  or  what  the  ugly  sensa 
tion  was.  Instinctively  following  the  great 
primeval  example,  she  ran  and  hid  herself,  — 
but  far  more  impetuously  it  is  probable  than 


2O  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

the  example  could  run.  In  the  woods,  things 
grew  no  clearer,  nor  yet  on  the  tip-top  of  the 
Witch-Tooth.  A  nascent  sense  of  the  fateful 
instability  of  pleasant  things,  a  dread  of  the 
loss  and  peril  of  change,  had  been  roused  in 
her  by  the  young  priest's  gentle  rebuff.  Why, 
since  she  liked  him  and  he  was  good  to  her, 
might  she  not  still  sit  on  his  knee?  Why 
had  he  called  her  Veronika?  Helpless,  un 
comfortable,  angry,  and  defiant,  she  wandered 
home.  That  night  she  made  herself  very 
small  and  young  as  a  young  child,  and 
crouched  on  the  floor,  her  cheek  pressed  close 
against  her  father's  leg,  who  silently  smoothed 
her  hair.  But  her  mother  said  it  was  silly 
actions,  like  a  dog  —  which  it  was. 


Heart's  Dearest  21 


II 


THE  narrow  table  against  the  wall  was  small 
for  five  persons,  but  they  sat  close,  elbow  to 
elbow,  and  the  supper  took  little  room.  At 
one  end  was  Dionysius  the  weaver,  next  him 
his  wife.  The  light  from  an  open  wick,  drawn 
through  a  cork  floating  on  beechnut  oil  in  a 
nicked  cup,  fell  on  his  pale  face  and  brilliant 
eyes  under  his  visor,  and  upon  the  florid 
robustness  of  the  woman's  contours  and  her 
wide  cheeks  framed  by  her  red  kerchief. 
Vroni,  at  the  other  end,  devouring  potatoes 
with  open-mouthed  zest  and  grinning  mali 
ciously  at  her  brothers,  was  yet  vaguely 
contrasting  types  and  dimly  speculating,  not 
with  mere  fondness,  but  with  rudimentary  aes 
thetic  satisfaction,  upon  the  fine  sadness  of  her 
father's  face. 

"  'T  is  a  nasty  wet  night  and  the  storm  is 
rising,"  grumbled  Agathe,  aggressively  loud- 
voiced,  grating  her  chair  on  the  stone  floor 
and  crossing  the  kitchen  with  ponderous 


22  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

tread.  "  Dn  licbcr  Gott!  As  if  we'd  not 
wind  enough  !  To  be  sure  I  Ve  long  known 
an  evil  blow  was  coming.  My  beastics  told 
me.  Lightfoot  for  one  has  been  flying  after 
her  tail  like  mad.  When  an  old  cat  goes  fool 
ish  wild  and  kittenish  and  plays  with  herself 
all  alone,  mind,  not  set  on  by  other  cats,  and 
narrows  her  eyes  down  to  two  little  lines  of  fire, 
and  leaps  high  after  one  knows  not  what,  then 
look  out  for  a  witch-wind." 

Taking  a  lantern  from  its  nail,  she  began  to 
dig  out  the  remains  of  a  tallow  stump. 

"Vroni,  fetch  me  a  bit  of  candle.  Hast 
left  the  lantern  filthy  again.  Art  scatter 
brained.  Art  good  for  naught." 

To  the  dissertation  on  feline  prescience 
nobody  responded,  it  being  familiar  as  the 
importunate  wail  of  the  blast.  Nor  did 
Vroni,  inured  to  more  strenuous  vitupera 
tion,  mind  in  the  least  the  comparatively 
mild  reproof,  but,  chewing  a  potato  skin 
with  obtrusive  nonchalance,  fetched  the  de 
sired  candle  and  asked  pertly :  — 

"Say,  mother,  didst  ever  see  a  live  witch?" 

"  Not  I,  thank  the  Lord  !  A  witch  brings 
rare  bad  luck.  A  smaller  bit,  careless  child. 
Wouldst  beggar  me  with  thy  wasteful  ways? 


Heart's  Dearest  23 

Not  that  bad  luck  fails  year  in  year  out. 
Never  a  witch  could  bring  worse." 

"Ah,  wife,  wife!"  remonstrated  Dionysius 
looking  up  with  a  faint  smile  from  the  shut 
tle  he  was  mending.  His  friendly  glance 
resting  briefly  on  his  two  tall  sons,  who  hav 
ing  come  in  late  were  still  stooping  assidu 
ously  over  their  soup-plates  piled  high  with 
boiled  potatoes,  followed  the  quick  movements 
of  his  Madel  and  lingered  lovingly  on  her 
bright,  dark,  impertinent  face  as  she  leaned 
knitting  against  the  wall. 

"Art  foolish,  Mann?"  returned  Agathe, 
grimly.  "  When  have  we  two  had  aught 
but  ill  luck?" 

"  We  Ve  got  a  roof  over  our  heads  at  least," 
he  suggested  amicably. 

With  a  bellicose  snort,  she  retorted :  — 

"  But  would  have  none  I  take  it  this  evil 
night,  had  I  myself  not  set  Sebastian  and 
Melchior  a-lugging  up  fresh  stones." 

"  We  have  six  good  children,"  he  suggested 
with  pacific  intent;  "  sober-minded  and  hard 
working,"  looking  at  his  sons,  —  "straight- 
grown  and  rosy,"  -  -  smiling  well  pleased 
upon  his  daughter. 

"  Naught  to  boast  of!" 


24  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"  We  have  never  lost  one,  Agathe." 

"  Is  it  sense  to  tell  me  that?  " 

"  Or  seen  one  wander  in  evil  ways,"  he  added, 
not  without  a  strain  of  solemnity. 

"  Ha  !  If  they  went  wrong,  they  'd  find  they 
had  their  mother  to  reckon  with  !  I  'd  like  to 
see  them  dare  —  the  pack!  " 

"  Yet 't  is  easy,"  said  Dionysius,  low,  and  bent 
over  his  shuttle. 

"  Thou,  mother,"  persisted  Vroni,  inquisi 
tive  yet  incredulous,  "  didst  ever  really  meet 
an  honest  body  who  knew  one  that,  telling  no 
lies,  had  truly  chanced  to  spy  a  live  witch?" 

"  Scores,  saucebox,  and  all  honest  folk. 
My  blessed  granny,  Heaven  rest  her  soul, 
saw  them  eighty  years,  and  that  thou 
knowst  well.  For  often  enough  have  I 
told  how  she  looked  up  the  very  day  she 
died  and  beheld  them  racing  and  shrieking 
and  whirling  upside  down  and  playing  leap 
frog  round  the  Tooth." 

"  Clouds,"  meekly  interpolated  Dionysius. 

"  Clouds  indeed  !  "  cried  Agathe,  incensed. 
"Do  clouds  yell  and  hoot  and  curse?" 

"  Not  to  my  knowledge." 

"  And  tap  on  the  casement  and  laugh  till 
the  blood  runs  cold  !  " 


Heart's  Dearest  25 

"  But,  wife  — " 

"  If  there  be  no  witches,  then  why  is  the 
crag  Witch-Tooth  by  name?  Answer  me 
that !  "  she  demanded  in  triumph.  Where 
upon  the  weaver  bowed  his  patient  head  and 
attempted  no  reply. 

"  If  there  be  witches,"  declared  Vroni,  suc 
cinctly,  "  I  mean  to  see  one.  If  there  be  none, 
I  mean  to  know  it." 

"  It  is  not  well  to  be  always  talking  of  evil," 
Sebastian  now  urged,  pushing  back  his  plate, 
wiping  his  mouth  on  his  sleeve,  and  crossing 
himself  deliberately. 

Melchior,  tolerably  skeptical  on  the  witch 
question,  yet  inclined  in  any  event  to  be  on 
the  safe  side,  crossed  himself  likewise. 

"  Father,"  harped  Vroni,  leaning  on  his 
shoulder,  "say,  are  there  live  ones?" 

"  Believe  or  not,  there  's  worse  than  witches 
abroad,"  announced  Agathe,  with  an  air  of 
bringing  on  her  heaviest  artillery,  while  remov 
ing  the  empty  dishes  with  a  clatter.  "  Why 
was  the  Diste 7- Bauer's  hound,  he  that  is  mostly 
mouse-still,  baying  enough  to  wake  the  dead  ? 
Why  does  my  brindle  low?  Why  are  the 
young  pigs,  both  Englander  and  Ungarn,  nos 
ing  about  at  this  time  of  night?  Why  is  the 


26  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

hencoop  in  a  flutter?  Didst  mark  the  flight 
of  the  hawk  at  sun-down?  Hast  watched  the 
signs  the  ravens  show  to  such  as  have  eyes  to 
see?"  Tramping  about,  she  was  yet  from 
alternate  corners  always  directing  her  volley 
at  the  inoffensive  bowed  head. 

"Dost  not  answer?  Hast  seen  naught? 
Nay !  "  she  exclaimed  with  massive  scorn. 
"Not  thou  !  Willst  naught  of  signs,  though 
dumb  things  rise  up  and  speak  when  the  soul 
of  a  suicide  —  "  she  crossed  herself,  Sebastian 
and  Melchior  did  likewise  —  "  is  flying  up  from 
the  lowlands.  It  is  on  this  wind  and  no  other 
that  such  souls  go  howling  by.  'T  is  the  black 
witch-wind  and  the  suicide  wind.  The  soul  is 
on  the  way,  and  until  he  is  past  the  Tooth  no 
honest  beast  can  rest.  Hark  !  "  Her  powerful 
figure  motionless,  she  stood  with  upraised 
warning  hand. 

The  rain  fell  in  torrents  upon  the  roof,  case 
ments  rattled,  from  all  quarters  gusts  like  ham 
mer-blows  struck  the  cottage,  while  inexplicable 
sounds,  inarticulate  human  tones  of  grief,  rage, 
and  despair,  rose,  fell,  rose  again,  and  surged 
upward  toward  the  Tooth. 

Dionysius  smiled  reassuringly  upon  the  spell 
bound  group. 


Heart's  Dearest  27 

"  'T  is  a  rarely  exposed  site,  and  the  last  of 
October,"  he  ventured  to  say  with  a  deprecat 
ing  look  at  his  wife  towering  still  in  the  shadow. 

Vroni,  knitting  fast,  her  cheeks  flushed,  hung 
breathless  over  the  weaver. 

"  Is  it  true,  father?  Say  !  Why  did  he  kill 
himself?  How  did  he  doit?  Must  have  been 
but  a  poor  foolish  fellow,  eh,  father?" 

"Seest,  wife?  Canst  fill  the  Madel's  head 
with  sorry  notions,"  he  protested  gravely. 

"  Is  a  big  girl  and  no  swaddled  baby  more, 
as  thou  wouldst  have  her  still." 

"Say,  father!  But  a  foolish  fellow,  eh? 
A  silly  pate."  Vroni  nudged  him  with  an 
imperious  elbow. 

"  A  sinner,"  amended  Sebastian's  deep  chest 
tone  of  conviction. 

Dionysius  flung  a  restraining  arm  round 
his  impetuous  little  daughter,  and  rejoined 
slowly :  - 

"  As  to  that,  we  are  all  sinners,  and  it  must 
be  a  rarely  unhappy  one  that  goes  off  thus : 
hard  pressed  somehow,  knows  not  which  way 
to  turn,  loses  his  head  quite  —  poor  lad  — 
poor  lad  !  " 

"  Speakst  soft  as  though  thou  sawest  him 
near  !  Wouldst  defend  him,  father  ?  "  Sebas- 


28  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

tian  demanded  in  excitement.  "  Yet  knowst 
well,  if  he  lays  hands  on  himself,  'tis  a  mortal 
sin,  and  meets  an  awful  doom." 

"  His  doom  concerns  his  Maker,  not  thee  or 
me  or  any  man,  my  son.  I  defend  naught. 
A  man  should  bear  his  burdens  to  the  end. 
But  there  's  awful  steep  climbing  in  life,  jagged 
paths  along  the  brink,  dizzy  moments  when 
the  heart  faints,  the  head  gets  wild.  No  help 
ing  hand  is  near.  I  say,  I  'm  sorry  for  such  a 
one,  that 's  all.  But  I  do  say  it." 

"  Dost  hear,  Sebastian  ?  Father  and  I  are 
sorry  for  the  man,"  and  Vroni  confronted  her 
brother  aggressively.  "  But  thou,  father,  say, 
—  is  it  true  his  soul 's  a-flying  up  from  the 
lowlands  on  the  great  wind  to-night?" 

Dionysius  turned  toward  the  dresser  where 
Agathe  stood  arranging  dishes  and  plates. 
"  I  pray  thee,  wife,  take  it  not  amiss,  but  if 
on  every  high  wind  that  blows  on  the  Rough 
Alp  a  suicide's  soul  should  fly  up  to  us  from 
the  lowlands,  surely  there  would  be  only  dis 
traught  folk  down  below  in  the  valleys  and 
great  towns,  naught  but  self-murderers,  yet 
never,  indeed,  enough  for  the  wind  business; 
for  when  have  we  —  in  the  wisdom  of  provi 
dence —  a  dearth  of  gales?" 


Heart's  Dearest  29 

"There,  mother,  hast  heard  now!"  laughed 
Vroni,  boisterously,  from  her  coign  of  vantage. 

"  Put  thy  shawl  over  thy  head,  magpie,  and 
come  along  with  me,  and  hold  the  lantern  a  bit 
while  I  speak  a  good  word  to  them  that  have  a 
deal more  sense  than  dull  human  folk,"  returned 
the  woman,  gruffly,  striding  out  and  slam 
ming  the  door,  not  exclusively  because  of  the 
tempest.  Firm  and  strong-footed,  she  tramped 
toward  the  barn,  while  slight  Vroni,  struggling 
along  in  front  with  the  lantern,  was  blown 
rnaclly  hither  and  thither,  and  arrived  drenched 
and  breathless. 

"  Ugh  !  "  she  exclaimed,  shaking  herself  vig 
orously.  "  The  water  is  trickling  down  the 
spine  of  my  back,  and  I  'm  as  poodle  wet  as 
when  I  plumped  into  the  brook.  Wast  scold 
ing  bravely,  mother,  eh?  Yet  not  a  word 
heard  I,  for  the  blast  and  the  great  shrieking 
and  the  many  voices.  And  all  for  a  mooly 
cow  that 's  fed  and  housed,  and  can  spy  no 
witch  at  all,  and  no  soul  flying,  since  my  father 
says  there  be  none  !  " 

"Wouldst  teach  me  my  business?"  came 
harshly  from  behind,  together  with  a  dive 
toward  Vroni's  ear ;  but  that  was  a  wary  mem 
ber;  the  lantern  described  a  fine  swift  parabola 


30  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

in  the  dark  barn ;  and  the  child  giggled  from  a 
corner. 

"  Hush  thy  cackle:  come  hither  and  see  that 
thou  hast  sense  with  thy  light.  Poor  Brin- 
dle  !  Wast  uneasy?  Wast  afraid?" 

The  woman's  voice  was  compassionate ;  her 
whole  being  softened  as  she  passed  into  the 
cow's  stall  and  fondled  the  animal  that  turned 
to  her  with  ears  outstretched,  licked  her  dress 
and  hands  with  its  rough  tongue,  and  thrust 
its  nose  under  her  arm.  Agathe  leaned  largely 
against  it,  extended  her  arms  widely  upon  it 
in  protection  and  comfort,  stroked  it,  talked 
steadily,  now  in  an  ''naudible  murmur,  now  in 
low  words. 

Vroni  climbed  into  the  manger  of  a  vacant 
stall,  and,  crouching,  held  the  lantern  high,  and 
sent  its  shaft  of  light  straight  down  upon  the 
strong  woman's  face  in  the  red  kerchief,  and 
upon  the  cow's  curved  horns,  great  shining 
eyes,  and  the  white  spot  on  its  forehead.  Be 
yond,  the  corners  of  the  barn  were  black.  The 
storm  howled  and  shook  the  great  doors  on 
their  creaking  hinges.  There  was  a  warm 
smell  of  cow,  a  dry  smell  of  hay  and  herbs. 
Agathe  continued  to  reason,  plead,  and  gently 
to  expostulate,  lavishing  upon  the  brindle  ex- 


Heart's  Dearest  31 

pansive  familiarity  of  caress  and  confident 
appeals  to  its  intelligence.  The  child's  impish 
smile  vanished.  Mute,  intent,  grave-eyed,  she 
watched  her  mother  and  listened  to  the  on 
slaught  of  the  wind. 

"  Was  not  the  heather  blessed  on  the  Feast 
of  the  Assumption?  Did  I  not  pluck  it  my 
self,  and  take  a  big  armful  to  church  for  the 
blessing,  and  hang  a  bunch  on  the  door  and 
one  under  the  eaves  and  one  over  my  brindle's 
stall?  Naught  shall  harm  thee.  Evil  is  on 
the  wind.  When  it  passes,  be  thou  still,  my 
brinclle.  Make  not  the  smallest  sound.  Dost 
hear  me?  Dost  mark  well?  Stir  not.  Quiet 
with  hoofs  and  tail.  Lift  not  thy  white  nose 
once  and  moo.  Art  wise?  Art  calm?" 

With  large  lingering  hands,  Agathe  took 
farewell  of  the  animal,  that  merely  turned  its 
soft  eyes  and  gleaming  white  spot  after  her, 
but  whatever  its  private  reflections,  made  no 
protest  at  being  left  alone. 

Preceded  now  by  a  tolerably  docile  torch- 
bearer,  Agathe  completed  her  rounds  by  briefly 
introducing  her  reassuring  presence  into  the 
apartments  of  her  calves,  pigs,  and  hens,  whose 
not  over-sensitive  organizations  seemed  in  truth 
curiously  roused,  restless,  apprehensive,  and 


32  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

singular  of  behavior.  With  each  species  she 
had  her  eminently  successful  method  of  ap 
proach.  Each  after  its  kind  gave  ample  re 
sponse.  All  animals  became,  as  it  were, 
humanized  under  her  influence.  None  could 
resist  her  sympathetic  affection,  her  insight, 
her  deferential  tribute  to  its  higher  nature. 
When  she  had  laid  magnetic  hands  upon  them, 
conversed  with  them  fraternally,  they  too  sub 
sided  into  their  wonted  nocturnal  tranquillity; 
and  mother  and  daughter  once  more  braved 
the  perilous  passage  of  the  barnyard,  where 
Vroni  staggered  with  head  bent  low  beneath 
the  blinding  rain,  and  the  tempest  strove  to  lift 
her  off  her  feet. 

"Oho!"  she  called  lustily.  "A  shove, 
mother,  just  a  good  hand  up,  and  I  '11  mount 
and  ride  this  runaway  wind,  and  be  myself  a 
live,  live  witch — the  only  sort  there  is  —  'tis 
my  father  says  it !  " 

Nixy-like  she  sprang  across  the  threshold, 
rivulets  and  pools  marking  her  course.  Shoot 
ing  a  volley  of  wayward  smiles  at  the  weaver, 
she  energetically  wrung  her  short  skirts,  rubbed 
her  wet  throat,  hair,  and  glowing  face,  scourged 
herself  smartly  from  head  to  foot,  and  stopped 
abruptly  to  cry :  — 


Heart's  Dearest  33 

"  Thou,  mother !  Wouldst  like  me  better 
had  I  two  little  horns  up  here?"  Wagging 
impudent  fingers  right  and  left  from  her  fore 
head,  where  her  charming  hair  lay  wet  in  rings, 
she  thrust  forward  her  long  throat  and  grinned 
like  a  demon  of  race. 

"  Maybe,  hadst  thou  below  them  a  gentle 
jaw  and  not  thy  clapper-tongue.  Art  coming, 
Mann?  'T  is  after  eight,  and  time  the  light 
was  out.  Though  thou  be  stiff-necked  and  be- 
lievest  not,  on  such  a  night  't  is  best  we  say 
our  prayers  and  sleep.  Besides,  why  sit  about 
and  burn  good  oil?" 

Moving  briskly  to  and  fro,  still  keenly  on 
the  trail  of  things  to  put  to  rights,  she  cast 
ungracious  glances  upon  the  three  men  smok 
ing  their  long  pipes,  and  spoke  with  her 
characteristic  high-pitched  and  resonant  dis 
content. 

Sebastian,  ever  intent  upon  holiness,  was 
pouring  over  the  Catechism ;  while  Melchior 
idly  turned  the  well-thumbed  leaves  of  the 
only  other  available  literature,  —  the  almanac. 
Presently  Sebastian  groaned  with  vehemence. 

"  Hast  stomach-ache  ?  "  bluntly  demanded 
Agathc. 

Unheeding  her  allusion  to  his  base  body 
3 


34  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

born  in  sin,  trembling  rather  for  the  safety  of 
his  father's  immortal  soul,  Sebastian  stam 
mered  :  — 

"Didst  do  that,  father?" 

"  I  did,  my  son,"  said  the  weaver,  tranquilly. 

"  Tis  a  sin,  father  !  " 

"  Not  so,  my  son.  No  sin,  at  least  I  trust 
't  is  none." 

"  Bestir  thyself,  Sebastian.  Melchior,  when 
tasks  be  done,  'tis  time  to  sleep.  Wast  ever 
owl-like,  Mann.  Teachest  thy  sons  to  turn 
night  into  day.  Dost  think  the  good  Lord 
made  the  dark  that  men  might  loll  with  pipes 
and  stretch  long  lazy  legs  and  argufy?  " 

"  I  '11  but  finish  this  little  job  of  tinkering  of 
odds  and  ends.  'Twill  not  take  long." 

"  I  '11  go  to  rest  then  first  for  once,"  she 
returned  morosely,  "  being  weary  and  wet  to 
my  bones.  See  that  ye  three  have  sense  to 
follow,  and  mind  the  fire  and  light.  The 
girl  is  gone.  A  wonder  I  had  not  to  drive 
her!  Good-night,"  she  muttered  curtly,  and 
went. 

"How  couldst  thou,  father?"  exclaimed 
Sebastian,  his  emotion  but  augmented  by 
suppression. 

Vroni,  delighted  with  herself,  rose  from  the 


Heart's  Dearest  35 

shadow  where  she  had  crouched  behind  her 
father's  chair. 

"  Art  too  large  for  sly  tricks,"  he  said  coldly. 

"  Ah,  father,  little  father,"  she  wheedled. 

"  Go.  Knowst  I  like  not  cheating  ways. 
Nor  canst  thou  say  thou  learnst  such  from  thy 
mother,  who  is  open  and  straight  as  daylight." 

"  Take  it  not  ill,"  she  faltered,  drooping 
under  his  rare  rebuke. 

"  Go,"  he  returned,  unrelenting.  "Yet,  stay. 
Art  wet  still  and  chilled.  Warm  thyself  a  bit. 
There  's  still  some  heat." 

"  Father!  "  she  pleaded,  for  he  was  looking 
above  and  around  her  head.  "  Vdterchen  !  " 

"  Art  my  Madel?  "  he  smiled  his  good  smile. 
"  Knowst  without  words  what  I  cannot  abide. 
'T  is  enough  said.  Warm  thyself  and  go  to 
thy  bed." 

Small,  demure,  and  unobtrusive,  she  took 
her  knitting  and  sat  down  in  the  chimney  cor 
ner  by  the  stove,  —  a  poor  thing  minus  rings  or 
covers,  — where  a  few  fagots  still  burned  dully, 
puffing  smoke  and  soot  into  the  room. 

Writh  gloomy  mien,  and  as  from  a  swollen 
throat,  the  dark  Sebastian  resumed  :  - 

"  I  wait  still  for  thy  answer.  How  couldst 
thou  do  it,  father?  Why?" 


36  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"  Because  I  must  needs  remember  the  others, 
my  son,"  the  weaver  declared  firmly,  —  "the 
others  all  round  the  round  world,  and  all  the 
others  still  that  lived  and  died  before  my 
time." 

Sebastian,  his  big-jointed  and  zealous  index- 
finger  boring  a  certain  obnoxious  spot  on  the 
small  page  open  on  the  table,  began  in  a  loud 
voice  to  expound. 

Now  Dionysius  the  weaver,  in  reflective,  un- 
controversial  mood,  and  merely  in  accordance 
with  the  gentle  trend  of  his  personal  convic 
tions,  had  chanced  one  day  mildly  to  modify  a 
statement  in  the  Catechism  to  the  effect  that 
the  Catholic  Church  is  the  one  and  exclusive 
"  ark  of  salvation."  He  had  drawn  a  faint, 
pensively  wavering,  almost  imperceptible,  but 
to  Sebastian's  mind  deadly  heretical  and  abom 
inable,  pencil-mark  through  the  word  only. 

Sebastian  fumed,  shook,  sawed  the  air, 
pounded  the  table  with  his  fist,  and  fairly 
wept,  in  what  would  have  been  a  diabolical 
temper  had  the  subject  under  debate  been 
mundane.  Melchior,  privately  agreeing  that 
it  was  an  impious  pencil-stroke,  deemed  it  dis 
creet  to  mutter  something  unintelligible,  and 
sneak  off  unobserved.  Vroni  stole  to  her 


Heart's  Dearest  37 

father's  side,  her  knitting  needles  clicking  ner 
vously  ;  greedily  drank  in  every  word,  and, 
if  she  understood  or  not,  alternately  scowled 
antagonism  at  Sebastian,  and  flashed  allegiance 
and  devotion  upon  the  weaver,  for  that  potent 
and  precious  old  reason,  —  as  constraining  for 
the  little  peasant  maid  as  for  the  great  Mon 
taigne. 

Whether,  indeed,  evil  things  astride  the 
winds  did  the  mischief  that  fateful  night,  or 
whether  the  ill-starred  pencil-mark,  long  lurking 
in  the  book,  popped  into  view  and  imprinted 
itself  the  more  indelibly  upon  Sebastian's 
irascible  soul,  because  of  the  unwonted  ab 
sence  of  the  strong  tutelary  deity  who  brooked 
in  that  kitchen  none  other  wrath  but  her  own, 
both  men  grew  perfervid. 

The  weaver  began,  it  is  true,  with  an  indul 
gent  smile,  and  was  able  for  some  time  to 
parry  his  son's  thrusts  with  composure.  But 
nothing  rouses  the  old  Adam  in  the  best  of 
us  quicker  than  a  religious  tussle.  Besides, 
Sebastian's  was  a  pre-eminently  contagious 
choler.  Then  these  were  father  and  son;  and 
what  is  more  truly  exasperating  than  to  dis 
cover  our  nearest  and  dearest  presuming  to 
differ  from  us  a  hairsbreadth  in  the  views 


38  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

which  we,  for  our  part,  know  to  be  conducive 
to  eternal  peace? 

So  they  wandered  on  over  the  world's  hot 
test  battle-ground,  stopped  now  and  again  for 
a  good  hearty  set-to,  and  finally  —  oh,  luckless 
wights  !  —  rushed  upon  the  vexed  question  of 
papal  infallibility:  Dionysius  asserting  His 
Holiness  only  in  his  function  as  Saint  Peter's 
successor  was  infallible  that  the  teachings  of 
the  Church  might  form  one  unbroken,  perfect 
chain ;  while  Sebastian,  frantically,  incoher 
ently,  and  with  the  roaring  oratory  of  a  bull  of 
Bashan,  tossed,  trampled,  and  tore  to  shreds 
the  theory  of  merely  academic  infallibility,  and 
insisted  the  Pope  was  also  as  mortal  man,  in 
word,  deed,  and  the  secret  recesses  of  his  heart, 
flawless  and  impeccable. 

Not  dialectic  Andover,  no  solemn  synod 
sitting  upon  a  recalcitrant  brother  who  had 
avowed  himself  not  sound  on  hell-fire  and 
tottering  over  infant  baptism,  not  High  and 
Low  Churchman  in  full  tilt,  not  even  Dun 
Scotus  and  Albertus  Magnus  were  ever  more 
thrilled  with  intolerance,  more  spurred  by 
theological  acerbity,  more  doughty  in  disputa 
tion,  more  persuaded  of  the  supreme  impor 
tance  of  unhorsing  the  antagonist,  than 


Heart's  Dearest  39 

were   this    pair   of    peasants    of    the   Rough 
Alp. 

They  heeded  neither  shrieking  wind  nor 
lapse  of  time.  It  is  significant  that  at  a 
tolerably  early  stage  of  the  argument  they 
forgot  to  refill  their  pipes.  To  the  child 
who,  deft  and  unobtrusive,  exceptionally  a 
wise  virgin,  replenished  now  oil,  now  wick, 
they  deigned  no  glance.  Nothing  indeed 
could  better  have  suited  her  lawlessness  than 
that  her  father  should  for  once  ignore  her 
existence.  After  each  silent  ministration,  she 
effaced  herself  in  the  shadowy  background, 
was  guiltily  glad  to  be  up  so  late,  and  slyly 
exultant  that  if  indeed  the  mother's  ears  were 
still  open,  the  storm  must  drown  all  other 
sounds. 

Vroni  heard  the  angry  night  booming  at 
sturdy  wall,  at  roof  and  clattering  casement 
—  drenching,  battering,  howling,  — •  retreating 
but  to  return  with  ever  fiercer  torrents  and 
more  evil  gusts ;  heard  the  contentious  vibra 
tions  of  the  men's  deep  voices  hurling  at  each 
other  great  words  about  Almighty  God  and 
Holy  Church;  heard,  in  spite  of  herself,  amid 
the  tumult  within  and  without,  the  ghastly 
train  of  which  her  mother  told,  — black  witches 


4-O  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

and  damned  souls.  To  the  young,  over-ex 
cited  brain  the  phantom  cavalcade  seemed 
often  very  real  and  near,  although  she  chid 
herself,  and  knew  there  were  none  such,  for 
'twas  her  father  said  it. 

At  length,  Sebastian  clutched  his  shirt  as 
if  suffocating,  rushed  from  the  house,  and,  so 
torrid  was  his  religious  fervor,  would  not 
cross  its  threshold  for  a  whole  year,  thereby 
sorely  grieving  the  kindly  soul  of  Dionysius 
the  weaver. 

Doubtless  one  result  of  his  mild  and  medi 
tative  apostasy  was  that  Sebastian  ultimately 
left  Hexenfels  and  obtained  a  —  to  his  mind 
-  quasi-sacerdotal  situation  as  steward  of 
the  great  Swiss  Convent  of  St.  Scholastika, 
where  he  not  only  did  excellent  service  in 
the  care  and  direction  of  farms,  vineyards, 
cattle,  serving  men  and  maids,  but  plucked 
brands  from  the  burning  to  his  heart's  content, 
dispensed  anathemas  to  erring  fellow-creatures 
with  splendid  prodigality  of  measurement  and 
a  distinctly  hierarchical  relish,  and  enjoyed 
all  his  days  a  reputation  for  eminent  sanctity. 

But  when  on  that  witch-night  he  strode 
wrathfully  into  the  storm,  his  father  sprang 
up  quickly,  ran  after  him,  called,  returned, 


Heart's  Dearest  41 

waited  a  while  at  the  open  door,  and  shook  his 
head,  incredulous  and  much  perturbed. 

"I  went  too  far,"  he  muttered.  "That  I 
could  go  so  far!"  He  stood  tall  in  his  gray 
drilling  and  leather  apron,  and  stretched  his 
legs  a  bit,  an  unwonted  flush  on  his  face,  his 
thoughts  remote.  Suddenly  he  laughed, 
walked  over  to  the  cupboard  and  tossed  down 
a  mug  of  cider  at  one  draught,  and  Vroni  mar 
velled,  for  this  was  never  his  way. 

"  Ei,  ei !  Thou  here?  Art  crazy,  child? 
Or  rather  hast  a  crazy  father  to  forget  thee. 
How  will  the  mother  chide  !  With  reason  too. 
And  my  poor  Bastel  fleeing  like  Cain.  Ei,  ei ! 
Dost  think  he'll  stop  at  Tante  Ursula's? 
Will  Marie  wake  and  take  him  in?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"He?  What  matters  it?  His  temper  boils 
and  splutters  so  't  will  keep  him  warm  enough. 
I  think  he  '11  run  on  like  the  clock,  till  he  runs 
down." 

"He  may  be  peppery,  but  he's  good  as 
gold.  'Twas  I  that  went  too  far.  'Twas  my 
fault.  I  rasped  him  sorely,  yet  knew  he 
could  not  bear  it.  Come,  come,  child,  make 
haste.  Strange  thou  'rt  not  heavy  with  sleep. 
Art  bright-eyed  still  and  hast  hot  cheeks." 


42  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"Thou,  too,  \ratcrclicn!"  she  retorted  with 
a  laugh,  "art  all  alive.  Thine  was  brave  talk. 
Never  heard  I  the  like.  Could  listen  till 
sunrise." 

"  'T  was  naught,  't  was  naught,"  he  replied, 
his  face  alert  and  full  of  light. 

"Ac/if  I  doubt  Father  Aloysius  could  talk 
so  big  and  full  mouthed!" 

"  Nay,  child,  't  is  far  removed  from  what 
thou  meanest.  'T  is  echoes  only.  But  it 
calls  back  old  days  when  I  was  young.  And 
though  'twas  wrong  to  rasp  Sebastian,  I  fear 
me  I  took  my  pleasure  in  it!"  he  admitted  in 
a  queer,  half-exultant,  half-shamefaced  way  to 
his  little  comrade,  who,  sparkling  and  eager, 
nodded  with  curiously  sympathetic  recogni 
tion  of  his  mood,  and  a  keen  search  to  dis 
cover  what  his  mind  was  beholding  beyond 
the  horizon  of  her  small  experience. 

"  'T  was  fine  in  the  old  days,  father?  Lov'st 
them  well.  'Tis  in  thy  face." 

"  Seest,  Madel,  shouldst  hear  what  I  once 
used  to  hear.  Men  with  booklearning  in 
their  pates,  and  ready  wits  and  bold,  —  fear 
ing  naught.  'T  is  like  that  in  the  great 
world.  There  too  knew  I  a  strange  and 
troublous  time  in  which  I  was  driven  wildly, 


Heart's  Dearest  43 

and  had  not  ever  a  fair  reckoning  —  of  which, 
when  thou  art  older,  thou  and  I  will  one  day 
speak.  Then  the  music  !  " 

He  sighed,  looking  off  thoughtful  and 
absent  again. 

"Art  missing  for  something,  father?"  she 
asked,  wistful,  in  instant  reflection  of  his 
changing  mood. 

"  Nay,  I  'm  old  and  staid  now,  and  —  hav 
ing  thee  —  content.  I  but  remembered." 

She  came  close  and  leaned  her  cheek  against 
his  arm. 

"Yet  art  ofttimes  missing  for  something 
with  thine  eyes." 

For  some  moments  he  was  silent. 

"Seest,  little  one,"  he  said  low,  smiling 
down  upon  her  with  great  sweetness,  "  't  is 
like  this.  The  good  thoughts  we  once  get 
hold  of  we  can  always  keep  stored  in  our 
heads,  and  quietly  take  them  down  one  by  one 
as  we  need  them,  and  turn  them  over  and  put 
them  back,  and  disturb  nobody.  But  the 
great  music.  If  a  man  has  once  heard  it,  it 
follows,  yet  floats  off;  he  cannot  seize  and 
hold  it  —  and  so,  't  is  true,  many  a  time  I  'm 
missing  for  it.  'T  is  a  sort  of  hunger  in  the 
heart." 


44  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 


III 

AT  fifteen,  Vroni  was  fairly  tall,  slight,  and 
of  compact  build,  her  brown  face  a  small  oval 
on  a  slender  throat,  her  mouth  eager  and  red. 
Every  morning  she  parted  her  hair  smoothly, 
brushed  it  straight,  meek,  and  flat  on  either 
side  her  head,  — as  did  every  other  girl  who 
respected  herself  in  the  whole  region,  —  and 
braided  it  in  a  long  tail  as  thick  as  a  man's 
fist.  But  before  night  all  meekness  had  fled 
before  the  waves  and  curls  that  broke  loose 
mutinously  as  the  shining  tail  went  frisking 
and  flaunting,  catching  and  dispensing  sun 
light  wherever  it  swung.  Even  in  Hexenfels, 
where  the  sterility  of  the  soil  effectually  pre 
cluded  overmuch  attention  to  mere  beauty 
in  woman,  the  Distel-Bauer,  old  as  well  as 
young,  —  Blasius,  Sepp  the  joiner,  Jokel, 
Hans,  Jorg,  and  Michel,  in  fact,  all  the  men 
were  moved  to  turn  and  stare  after  her  as  she 
passed,  and  to  say  one  to  another:  — 
"The  weaver's  Vroni  is  a  tidy  maid." 


Heart's  Dearest  45 

About  this  time  Dionysius,  on  a  sudden, 
began  to  start  up  from  his  loom  in  working 
hours,  —  a  proceeding  which,  the  aggrieved 
Agathe  clamored,  was  without  precedent  in 
heaven  or  on  earth.  Naught  that  concerned 
his  daughter  escaped  his  quiet  observation : 
where  she  was  working  every  hour  and  with 
whom,  the  unanimity  of  men's  eyes  at  church, 
young  Blasius  and  Sepp  ever  impending,  and 
Michel  hanging  about  at  a  discomfited  dis 
tance,  when  he  himself  intervened  for  the 
walk  home  in  the  twilight. 

He  knew  well  that  she  never  gave  one  of 
the  lurking  swains  so  much  as  a  friendly 
glance,  rarely  enough  a  decent  word,  but  wide 
and  malicious  stares  in  plenty,  and  laughter 
of  a  frankly  explosive  sort.  Yet  she  felt  his 
gaze  resting  ever  more  thoughtfully  upon  her. 
He  would  often  lay  his  hand  on  her  head  and 
look  straight  in  her  eyes,  long,  searchingly, 
troubled,  one  might  almost  have  fancied  re 
gretfully  — •  although  they  were  bewitching 
eyes  of  the  brown  that  is  touched  with  fit 
ful  yellow  gleams.  He  was  chiefly  wishing, 
among  many  other  things,  that  she  was,  well 
—  less  Vroni-ish. 

"  Better  bind  thy  wild  hair  about  thy  head 


46  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

tight  and  modest,"  he  said  one  day,  frowning, 
and  she  did  it;  but  as  for  Sepp,  Hans,  Jorg, 
Michel,  and  the  rest,  not  a  man  of  them  stared 
less,  —  rather  more. 

The  outward  resemblance  between  father  and 
child  was  becoming  even  more  pronounced. 

"Strange  thou  shouldst  be  more  like  me 
than  all  my  sons  —  without,  and  alas,  some 
times  I  fear,  within!" 

"Dost  wish  I  were  a  boy?  Wouldst  like 
me  better?"  she  returned  blithely. 

"Nay,  Vroni.  Thou  art  my  heart's  child. 
But  the  world  is  easier  for  the  lads." 

"  Shame,  father,  wouldst  have  another  growl 
ing  Sebastian  or  long-legged,  sheep-faced  Mel- 
chior  instead  of  thy  Madcl." 

Even  his  peculiar  headaches  she  was  begin 
ning  to  develop,  not  too  frequently,  yet  when 
they  came,  so  blinding,  crushing,  and  mad 
dening,  she  would  fiercely  beat  her  head 
against  the  wall ;  and  when  they  went,  they 
would  leave  her  wilder  than  ever,  —  uncon 
trollable  in  mirth  and  recklessness. 

"My  child,  mem  Herzenskind"  murmured 
Dionysius,  in  deep  distress  and  strange  con 
trition,  when  he  first  found  her  on  her  bed 
quite  desperate  with  pain,  "have  I  then  given 


Heart's  Dearest  47 

thee  that  accursed  inheritance  ? "  and,  Agathe's 
great  voice  resounding  reassuringly  from  the 
second  field,  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and 
rocked  her  to  and  fro,  and  two  tears  not  her 
own  fell  on  the  young  girl's  cheek. 

In  those  days  Agathe  was  continually  harp 
ing  on  one  strain.  The  girl  should  bestir 
herself,  see  the  world,  and  earn  some  money 
like  her  sisters  before  her. 

"Not  yet,"  the  weaver  would  reply  frown 
ing.  "  Art  possessed,  wife,  to  get  rid  of  her, 
• —  and  she  but  over  young. " 

"  Yet  understands  her  work  when  once  at  it 
better  than  those  twice  her  age.  What  shall 
the  great  girl  do  here  ?  Do  I  perchance  need 
her?  Am  I  not  woman  enough  for  my  own 
business  and  thrice  as  much  more?"  she  de 
manded  jealously.  "  Shall  she  laze  about  and 
eat  us  out  of  house  and  home,  and  times  so 
hard?  Is  she  then  other  flesh  and  blood  than 
her  sisters,  who  took  their  turn  and  went  down 
to  the  lowlands  ?  Fie,  Mann  !  Wouldst  keep 
the  wind  and  rain  from  her  if  thou  couldst ! 
Wast  ever  foolish  over  the  maid!  But  by 
good  luck  she  hath  a  mother  who  hath  taught 
her  to  work,  as  no  flighty  little  maid  ever 
worked  before,  and  no  thanks  to  thee,  Mann  ! " 


48  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

Agathe  was  right.  Where  diligence  was 
for  all  imperative,  no  girl  worked  so  well  or 
so  joyously  as  Vroni.  Impetuous,  swift  of 
movement  and  speech,  full  of  frolic  as  a 
kitten,  she  was  clever  at  whatever  she  under 
took.  Nothing  was  a  hardship.  Nothing 
daunted  her.  Not  even  when  she  and  the 
long  file  of  men  and  women  toiled  painfully 
up  the  ledge  impassable  for  carts,  and  balanced 
upon  their  heads  great  baskets  of  manure  to 
fertilize  their  stony  potato  fields.  This  ardu 
ous  climbing  partook  indeed  of  the  nature 
of  an  inexorable  sacred  rite,  a  sacrifice  to  the 
austere  spirits  of  the  soil,  for  Hexenfels  sub 
sisted  chiefly  upon  the  humble  potato. 

The  Lindls  drank  coffee  only  upon  Sunday 
mornings.  On  week-days,  they  had  for  break 
fast  potato-soup,  or  a  thickened  milk  soup, 
or  a  porridge  made  of  dried  oats.  At  noon, 
Spalzen  —  a  sort  of  home-made  vermicelli - 
or  flour  dumplings  with  fresh  salad,  or  a  dish 
of  potatoes  mixed  with  radishes.  For  supper, 
thick  sour  milk  and  potatoes  boiled  in  their 
jackets,  —  all  the  year  round  and  in  every 
house  in  the  village.  Beside  this,  they  par 
took  of  Vesper,  or  luncheon,  regularly  at 
eleven  and  four,  always  a  bit  of  black  bread 


Heart's  Dearest  49 

and  a  glass  of  cider.  More  opulent  families 
in  Hexenfels  drank  beer  for  Vesper ;  poorer, 
an  amazing  beverage  called  Cibebcn-Most, 
which  although  brewed  of  naught  but  the 
innocuous  dried  currant  of  commerce  and  soft 
spring  water,  like  many  another  marriage  of 
elements  mild  but  incompatible,  fermented 
into  unearthly  sourness.  Of  meat  they  par 
took  seldom,  and  never  bought  it.  When 
they  killed  a  calf  or  pig  or  kid,  they  dis 
tributed  portions  among  neighbors  who  in 
their  turn  responded  with  like  courtesies. 

The  Lindls,  according  to  the  Hexenfels 
scale  of  measurement,  possessed  neither  pov 
erty  nor  riches.  They  kept  ordinarily  two 
cows;  when  there  was  dearth  of  fodder  only 
one,  but  always  two  calves,  and  usually  a 
couple  of  goats.  Every  family,  even  the  poor 
est,  had  a  cat ;  only  well-to-do  people  — •  herein 
lay  a  fine  distinction  —  a  dog.  Uionysius  had 
none. 

To  have  six  children  and  be  well-to-do  on 
the  Rough  Alp  would  have  been  indeed  a 
marvellous  achievement.  It  is  fair  to  say 
Dionysius  the  weaver  never  so  much  as  at 
tempted  it.  Like  his  neighbors,  he  had 
inherited  his  land  covered,  so  to  speak,  knec- 
4 


50  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

deep  with  mortgages.  These  were  veritable 
heirlooms  handed  along  with  the  wretched 
little  farms  from  generation  to  generation. 
Nobody  ever  thought  of  making  the  feeblest 
attempt  to  extricate  himself.  If  by  chance 
a  small  legacy  or  other  windfall  surprised  a 
man,  he  straightway  bought  an  extra  cow,  or 
another  field  —  to  be  mortgaged,  as  is  obvious, 
in  due  time.  Hence,  if  for  no  other  reason, 
money  was  never  what  is  euphemistically 
called  on  the  Stock  Exchange  "easy"  or  even 
"firm."  People  there  mostly  did  without 
it,  and  year  in  year  out  got  along  fairly 
well. 

Fuel  fortunately  was  not  dear.  Magnifi 
cent  forests  clothed  the  slopes  below  them. 
Here,  at  intervals,  lordly  cavaliers  with  long- 
legged  boots,  guns,  dogs,  and  men  in  livery, 
intruded  upon  the  great  stillness  their  alien 
shouts  and  jollity,  and  the  sad  havoc  which 
they  called  sport;  and  here  one  fixed  day  in 
every  month  the  humble  poor  of  Hexenfels 
were  permitted,  with  fitting  injunction  and 
warning,  and  under  due  surveillance  of  the 
forester  on  guard,  to  file  in  and  fetch  what 
fagots  they  needed,  provided  they  conducted 
themselves  meekly  as  beseemed  their  station, 


Heart's  Dearest  51 

and  were  mindful  to  break  only  dry  branches 
and.  not  injure  the  trees. 

The  Lindls  never  availed  themselves  of 
this  privilege  —  another  fine  distinction.  But 
Vroni,  trained  to  utilize  everything  imag 
inable,  gathered  in  those  woods  masses  of 
pine-cones  which  made  the  best  possible 
ironing-fire;  and  in  the  autumns,  but  not 
every  year,  she  would  find  there  quantities  of 
beechnuts,  from  which  she  extracted  an  excel 
lent  oil  for  cooking  as  well  as  illuminating 
purposes.  However,  even  black  Anastasia, 
daughter  of  rich  Anton  the  brewer,  did  no 
less,  and  such  thrifty  devices  could  never 
compromise  the  sturdy  independence  of  the 
family  of  Dionysius  the  weaver. 

Anton  was  the  village  Midas,  and  took  him 
self  seriously,  as  Midases  do  usually,  and 
brewers  no  less.  He  dearly  loved  attention 
to  his  soft  and  pompous  personality.  Once 
on  his  fete,  or  name-day,  pert  Vroni,  a  small 
child  then,  for  a  freak  left  her  giggling  little 
mates  huddled  together  at  the  side  of  the 
road,  advanced  alone,  kept  her  face  quite 
straight,  and  in  the  measured  accents  of  her 
seniors,  yet  as  clear  as  a  bell,  gave  him  the 
deferential  salutation  with  which  all  the  vil- 


52  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

lagers  without  distinction,  being  but  Rough 
Alp  boors  and  not  educated  up  to  the  deli 
cacy  of  D'yer-do  and  Ta-ta,  accosted  one 
whom  they  had  not  recently  seen :  — 

"  God  greet  thee.  Thy  health  is  dear  to 
me." 

So  much  by  way  of  dignified  preliminaries. 
Then  followed  fittingly  for  the  festal  day : 

"  I  congratulate.      I  commend  myself.  " 

Much  pleased  at  this  ovation,  he  gave  her  a 
silver  groschen.  Having  cleverly  organized 
her  forces,  she  and  her  cronies,  a  year  from 
that  day,  stood  bravely  in  a  line  and  spoke 
the  congratulatory  word  in  unison.  Each  re 
ceived  a  groschen.  The  year  after,  the  little 
mob  was  larger,  with  like  results.  The  next 
year  the  whole  school  —  it  was  not  a  stupen 
dous  body — 'inarched  to  the  brewer's,  and 
every  rascal  of  them  got  a  silver  groschen 
from  the  highly  flattered  Anton. 

Thus  the  procession  gradually  crystallized 
into  a  public  institution  —  an  inalienable 
privilege  of  the  school-children.  Great  would 
have  been  the  tumult  had  they  found  them 
selves  deprived  of  the  Anton-groschen,  and 
the  smirking  Anton  would  have  sadly  missed 
this  insidious  tribute  to  his  popularity  —  after 


Heart's  Dearest  53 

all  probably  as  spontaneous  and  disinterested 
as  most  great  public  demonstrations  in  honor 
of  the  mighty.  The  creator  of  the  rite  was 
however  much  perturbed  when  at  length  the 
weaver  intimated  she  should  no  longer  lead 
the  triumphant  march  of  the  school  to  the 
brewery. 

"Art  too  large,  Madel." 

" 'T  is  my  groschen,  father!"  she  returned 
reproachfully. 

"So  childish  still?  Wait.  I '11  give  thee 
thy  groschen.  My  tall  maid  surely  wants 
naught  of  old  Anton." 

"  Keep  thy  groschen,  father.  Hast  not  a 
pocketful  of  silver  like  Anton.  Art  not  fat 
and  foolish  either.  'Tis  not  the  silver  bit 
-  but  seest  ?  "  -  hot  tears  of  vexation  in  her 
eyes  though  she  smiled  still  —  "'tis  stupid 
to  be  always  older  and  pulled  up  short,  now 
here,  now  there.  Nay,  keep  thy  groschen. 
The  school  may  go  for  all  of  me.  Say, 
father,  wouldst  really  have  me  slow  as  Tante 
Ursula?" 

"Nay,  Madel,  I'd  have  thee  thyself,  but 
wiser,"  he  said  a  little  sadly.  "Were  't  pos 
sible,  God  knows  I  'd  have  thee  wise." 

In  truth  he  had,  in  spite  of  his  great  love, 


54  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

small  mercy  on  the  girl.  When  the  yearly 
market  or  Kirc/tiuci/t  came,  or  carnival  time 
briefly  stirred  the  staid  iolk  to  lighter,  freer 
movement,  or  a  prospective  wedding  absorbed 
public  attention  for  months,  or  a  christening 
or  funeral  evolved  agreeable  reunions  with 
the  obligatory  consumption  of  viands  —  and 
all  such  events  were  momentous  and  exciting 
in  the  extreme  to  young  Vroni  —  full  three 
days  beforehand  Dionysius  would  look  care 
worn,  and  anxiously  begin  his  exhortations, 
instructing,  enjoining,  and  warning  in  such 
wise  that  the  girl,  glowing  with  anticipation, 
would  protest  mischievously:  — 

"  'T  is  terrible  to  hear  thee,  father,  and  fairly 
spoils  the  taste  for  frolic.  Surely  'twere 
best  I  stayed  at  home  and  twirled  my  thumbs 
and  held  my  breath  to  please  thee. " 

Ikit  even  his  overweening  solicitude  had  to 
grant  that  the  few  merrymakings  harmed  her 
not  a  whit.  She  grew  taller  and  prettier,  but 
hardly  less  childlike.  He  could  find  no  fault 
in  her.  All  that  she  had  been,  all  that  she 
used  to  do,  she  still  was  and  did;  but  every 
where  and  always  he,  pondering  much,  was 
vaguely  troubled. 

Regularly  on  Sundays,  toward  evening,  she 


Heart's  Dearest  55 

walked  as  when  a  child  with  her  girl  friends 
in  the  fields  and  woods,  sang  folksongs, 
plucked  forget-me-nots,  laughed  riotously, 
and  when  he  came  for  her  ran  swiftly  to  meet 
him,  — -  on  her  face  the  look  he  thought  the 
most  beautiful  thing  on  earth,  clung  to  him, 
strolled  with  him,  and  seemed  as  blithe,  un 
conscious,  and  innocently  unruly  as  ever.  In 
her  was  indeed  no  alarming  change.  But  his 
heart  was  never  at  rest,  for  he  saw  Sepp,  Jorg, 
and  Blasius  sitting  on  the  stile,  their  short 
loose  Sunday  jackets  of  brand-new  blue  cloth, 
in  each  hat  a  red  carnation,  and  knotted 
attractively  under  each  chin  between  the  cor 
ners  of  the  unbleached  shirt  collar,  a  flaming 
silk  handkerchief. 

The  weaver,  like  most  of  his  race  and  kind, 
greatly  loved  their  quietly  commemorative 
family  fetes  and  simple  gala  days,  which, 
however  barren  their  symbols,  were  yet  in 
formed  and  spiritualized  by  the  dignity  of 
gentle  observance.  On  Agathe's  birthday,  or 
rather  name-day,  she  always  received  a  pound 
of  loaf-sugar,  and,  according  to  ancient  custom, 
a  great  wreath  of  wild  flowers,  which  Vroni 
plucked,  bound,  and  hung  by  her  mother's 
bed. 


56  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

As  school-child,  Vroni  had  also  to  learn 
and  repeat  each  year,  in  honor  of  the  festival, 
a  text  or  hymn.  On  her  father's  name-day 
she  presented  him  too  with  a  wreath,  and 
spoke  her  little  verse;  while  from  Agathc 
he  received  undeviatingly  six  ffennigswort/i 
of  snuff  —  " Doppcl  AIops  and  Fine  Merino 
mixed"  —and  Backstein  cheese  for  an  equal 
amount.  On  Vroni's/r/V  she  was  usually  pre 
sented  with  a  new  kerchief,  an  apron,  and  some 
apples.  Now  that  she  was  so  old,  her  kerchief 
was  of  apple-green  silk  and  had  a  fringe. 

Were  the  gifts  mean,  they  yet  caused  hon 
est  pleasure.  Diamonds  have  been  known 
to  fail  to  do  as  much.  Were  the  festal  days 
celebrated  beneath  an  obscure  peasant  weaver's 
roof,  they  were  ushered  in  with  essentially 
respectful  rites  and  attended  from  dawn  till 
eve  with  honors.  One  wore  one's  Sunday 
clothes.  Exceptional  deference  and  tran 
quillity  pervaded  one's  home  atmosphere.  In 
the  village,  everybody  one  met  extended  a 
cordial  hand  and  said  impressively:  IcJi gratu- 
lire ;  while  relatives  and  friends  made  a  spe 
cial  pilgrimage  across  one's  threshold  to  utter 
the  same  felicitation.  The  fact  of  one's  ex 
istence  was  thus  agreeably  accentuated,  its 


Heart's  Dearest  57 

importance  in  creation  —  often  regarded  skep 
tically  —  now  made  manifest.  A  beneficent 
dimness  enveloped  the  sad  train  of  cares, 
fears,  misfortunes,  sorrows,  blunders,  and  in 
firmities  always  dogging  one's  heels.  One 
thanked  God  for  what  one  had,  and  stopped 
bewailing  what  one  had  not. 

By  inheritance,  tradition,  and  natural  ten 
dency  this,  more  or  less,  was  the  attitude  of 
the  weaver's  gentle  spirit  toward  these  simple 
gala  days.  These  too  now  suffered  a  change. 
Vroni  duly  made  her  wreaths  and  spoke  her 
verses  as  carefully  and  innocently  as  of  old. 
But  on  Frau  Agathe's  name-day  —  an  event 
hitherto  wholly  unnoticed  by  the  youth  of  the 
village  —  a  pot  of  lard,  brought  a  long  dis 
tance,  was  significantly  laid  at  her  feet  by  big 
Jorg,  while  Blasius,  blushing,  but  sustained 
by  the  consciousness  of  munificence  and  pat 
rimony,  appeared  with  no  less  than  a  sugar- 
loaf  under  his  arm.  Dionysius,  in  his  turn, 
was  distinguished  at  the  hands  of  Michel  and 
others  by  choice  portions  of  newly  slaughtered 
animals.  Over  all  offerings  to  her  larder 
Agathe  chuckled,  Dionysius  looked  disturbed; 
Vroni  mocking  or  indifferent  and  remote. 

On  a  May  day,  when  the  eligible  bachelor- 


58  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

dom  of  Hexenfels  had  the  privilege  of  inti 
mating  preference  and  secret  hopes,  a  young 
beech  and  two  young  birches  were  planted  in 
the  night  before  Vroni's  casement. 

"Shall  I  chop  them  down,  father?"  she 
asked  disdainfully. 

"Nay,  child.  Let  them  be.  Things  must 
take  their  course,"  he  answered  slowly. 

"  At  this  rate  we  '11  soon  have  a  young  wood 
round  us, —  and  before  long  a  wedding,  I  make 
no  doubt,"  remarked  Agathe,  well  pleased. 
"  Seest,  Mann?  There's  many  a  richer,  but 
Vroni,  the  lads  all  know,  hath  a  right  sort  of 
mother,  and  is  a  tidy  worker.  She  hath  but 
to  choose." 

"  My  little  maid  !  "  sighed  the  weaver,  and 
laid  his  hand  on  her  head. 

"  Thou,  Vroni !  What  thinkest  thou ?  Was 
it  Sepp,  Blasius,  and  long  Jorg?  Blasius  for 
sure,  eh?  An  orderly  lad,  Blasius,  and  brought 
me  a  four-mark  sugar-loaf.  Planting  trees 
costs  nothing,  but  not  all  do  bring  sugar.  To 
be  sure  old  Blasius  has  his  eye  on  the  thick 
Anastasia;  yet  he  likes  thee  well  enough,  and 
looks  after  thee  when  thou  springst  about, 
and  wert  thou  but  a  little  decent  spoken  to 
him,  and  less  wild  and  unmannerly,  he  'd  not 


Heart's  Dearest  59 

mind  that  thou  hast  not  her  stocking  full  of 
money.  At  least  he  'd  get  over  it.  And 
there  's  not  so  good  a  place  for  a  wife  in  all 
Hexenfels,  mind  that,  with  the  mother  dead 
and  out  of  the  way,  and  nobody  to  hinder,  and 
the  two  men  a  decent  sort,  and  the  good  fields 
and  good  cattle,  and  money  to  spare.  Art 
getting  on  in  years,  Vroni.  'T  is  time  to  cease 
springing  and  shouting  like  mad.  'T  is  time 
to  think  sense." 

"Dost  call  Blasius  sense?"  laughed  Vroni. 
"  Nay,  not  he  !  Was  ever  a  dunce  at  school, 
mother,  and,  oh,  his  little  eyes,  and,  oh,  his  big 
cars,  and,  oh,  how  he  stuttered  and  shuffled 
and  shambled,  the  sugar-loaf  under  his  arm, 
and  his  nose  redder  than  his  hair  or  his  new 
rainbow  cravat.  I  could  but  stare  and  wonder 
which  thing  did  set  the  other  a-fire  where  all 
was  blazing  —  but  'twas  his  nose  for  sure." 

"A  man's  nose  is  no  disgrace,  and  has 
naught  to  do  with  marriage,"  proclaimed 
Agathe.  "  Anastasia  will  ne'er  spy  the  bit  of 
red.  For  my  part,  I  marked  it  not  at  all  for 
the  good  sugar-loaf." 

"Black  Anastasia  is  two  and  twenty.  'T  is 
old.  Let  her  take  her  stocking  and  go  and 
marry  Blasius.  As  for  me,  though  the  men 


60  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

plant  trees  as  high  as  the  Tooth,  I  like  none 
but  my  father." 

"  Vain  talk,  empty,  as  a  puff-ball.  'T  is  true 
he  spoils  thee  with  his  notions." 

Vroni,  a  little  scornful,  yet  in  high  good 
humor,  retorted  smiling:  — 

"  Leave  me  yet  in  peace,  mother,  with  thy 
talk  of  weddings.  Seest  well  I  am  not  ready. 
I  but  laugh  at  them.  For  my  life  I  cannot 
help  laughing  at  the  men.  Why  should  they 
bother  me?  Do  I  bother  them?  Do  I  so 
much  as  look  at  them,  except  they  stand  heavy 
in  my  path?  " 

"  Because  thou  art  ill-mannered  and  wild  as 
no  other,  except  it  be  a  hawk.  Must  marry 
sooner  or  later,  eh?" 

"Why?"  demanded  Vroni,  sturdily. 

"  Hear  her !  "  and  Agathe  raised  protesting 
eyes  and  hands  toward  heaven. 

"  Yes,  why —  if  T  want  no  man?" 

"  For  what  did  God  make  maids  except  to 
marry?" 

"Where  did  He  say  that?  Whom  did  He 
tell  it?"  demanded  the  girl,  a  wicked  light  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Art  not  seemly,  Veronika.  So  spcaketh 
no  good,  pious  maid." 


Heart's  Dearest  61 

"  Tante  Ursula  is  pious  beyond  all  women 
far  and  near,  yet  never  married." 

"  She  had  her  father's  house  to  keep,  and 
enough  to  live  on.  She  is  different." 

"  Oh !  then  I,  too,  will  be  different.  I  will 
work  and  earn  money  that  I  need  never  marry. 
And  when  thou  diest,  —  take  it  not  amiss, 
mother !  —  I  '11  be  like  Tante  Ursula  and  keep 
house  for  my  father." 

"  Art  wilder  than  a  boy  and  bolder  with  thy 
tongue.  But  though  over-mirthful,  marriage 
will  tame  thee  yet.  Wait !  " 

"  Hast  taken  the  best  man  thyself,  mother. 
Mightst  well  have  left  me  my  father !  " 

"  'T  is  empty  talk  enough,  I  say.  Go  now 
about  thy  business." 

"  'T  is  no  use,  mother.  Canst  not  make  me 
other  than  I  am.  I  '11  like  no  man  for  trees  or 
sugar-loaves.  Seest,  until  one  comes  along 
with  my  father's  eyes  and  smile  and  way  of 
speech,  and  notions,  mother,  all  his  notions, 
and  his  good  heart,  and  his  hand  on  my  head, 
I  '11  like  no  man.  Hast  heard  now,  mother  !  " 
and  as  she  went  she  sang  loud  and  sweet: 

"  Mein  Schatz  ist  ein  Weber ^ 
Ein  Weber  ist  er." 


62  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"  My  little  maid  !  "  said  the  weaver  once 
more,  smiling,  straightening  himself  free  and 
relieved. 

"  Hast  wholly  spoiled  the  girl,  seest? 
Canst  smile?  Fie  !  " 

"  I  like  her  thus,"  Dionysius  said  simply. 
"  I  would  not  have  her  casting  sly  eyes  at 
men.  My  Madel  pleases  me.  What 's  amiss, 
wife?  Is  but  a  child." 

"  Child  here,  child  there  !  Art  losing  thy 
good  wits?  Yet  dost  mark  she  is  a  maid  like 
another,  and  the  men's  eyes  ever  on  her.  If 
she  stays  here,  she  '11  marry  speedily,  and 
where  's  the  harm,  say  I,  though  thou  knit- 
test  thy  brows  like  a  thundercloud.  If  she 
goes  away,  she  '11  earn  some  money  for  us, 
which  is  better  still  —  and  marry  all  the 
same,  but  later.  Mark  my  words.  Whether 
so  or  so,  she  '11  marry,  and  though  she  stare 
cool  with  her  big  eyes  to-day,  to-morrow  she 
may  hang  her  head  and  turn  red  or  white  in 
the  cheek." 

"  She  's  over-young  to  marry,"  muttered  the 
weaver,  disturbed. 

"  Then  send  her  off  to  work." 

"  She  's  over-wild  and  innocent-like  to  go 
among  strangers." 


Heart's  Dearest  63 

"They'll  tame  her,  I  take  it.  But  keep  her 
here,  an  thou  willst,  and  marry  her  straight 
way.  Why  not?  As  for  me,"  she  trumpeted, 
"  I  'm  reasonable  !  " 

"  I  fain  would  see  her  happy,"  Dionysius 
replied  wistfully. 

"  Happy !  Mann,  art  enough  to  provoke  a 
saint." 

"  I  seek  not  to  provoke  thee.  I  would  but 
show  thce  my  thought,  for  the  child's  sake. 
Let  us  for  once  consult  quietly  together,  for 
she  is  our  child,  thine  as  mine." 

"  Hcrr  Jc  !  Art  rarely  civil!  Mostly  'tis 
as  if  thou  thyself  hadst  plucked  her  ready- 
made  from  a  fairy  bush,  or  as  if  she  'd  fallen 
from  the  sky  into  thy  arms  and  no  trouble  to 
nobody,  like  roast  pigeons  into  the  mouths  of 
the  rich  !  " 

"  Thou  art  her  mother,  and  this  is  my 
thought,"  he  went  on  quietly.  "  There  's  rare 
good  stuff  in  her,  but  she  is  not  like  the 
others,  wife,  —  take  it  not  ill.  She  is  fiercer- 
hearted,  hath  more  nerve  in  her  joy,  would 
grieve  worse  if  grief  came.  'Tis  dead  weary 
work  to  plod  on  side  by  side  with  one  who 
understands  thee  not,  and  hath  no  part  in  thy 
thoughts.  At  least  I  mean  I  fear  'twould  be 


64  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

thus  for  our  girl.  Besides,  I  shall  not  always 
be  near  her.  One  does  not  know  these  things," 
he  said  deprecatingly ;  "  but  I  'm  thinking  many 
a  time  I  'm  not  over-strong.  Somehow  —  not 
that  they're  not  orderly  lads  enough  —  I  can 
not  seem  to  put  my  mind  on  one  quite  fit  to 
lead  my  Madcl  home." 

"Tis  always  the  same  old  story  and  pure 
vexation  to  talk  with  thee.  Naught  is  good 
enough  for  thy  daughter,  and  thou  art  no 
better  than  the  dog  in  the  manger." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  he  returned  conciliatingly. 
"  It  maybe  I  'm  over  soft  about  the  little  maid. 
Have  patience,  Agathe.  I  will  turn  all  these 
things  over  in  my  mind." 

"  And  if  thou  turnst  and  turnst  till  dooms 
day,  willst  find  naught  else  but  a  wedding  or 
the  lowlands." 

Thus  it  came  about  that  after  a  long  drought 
and  an  appalling  failure  of  crops,  when  fodder 
and  money  were  scarce,  and  Dionysius'  weav 
ing  often  interrupted  by  brief  illnesses,  when 
Blasius,  Sepp,  Michel,  Jokel,  Jorg,  and  Hans 
loomed  ever  more  ominous  on  the  near  horizon, 
and  Agathe's  contentious  voice  ceased  not  its 
arguments  and  vehement  reproach,  the  weaver, 
dreary  and  desperate,  resolved  to  brave  the  ills 


Heart's  Dearest  65 

he  knew  not  rather  than  longer  face  those  he 
knew  too  well.  Accordingly  Vroni,  nothing 
loath  and  nearly  seventeen,  left  the  Rough  Alp 
for  the  first  time,  and,  commended  to  the  care 
of  a  Hexenfels  underhouse-keeper,  was  sent 
down  to  the  lowlands  to  Waldmohr  Schloss. 


66  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 


IV 


THREE  days  and  three  nights  Vroni  wept 
stormily  for  home-sickness  and  acute  long 
ing  for  Dionysius  the  weaver.  For  nearly 
three  days  more  she  had  her  headache. 
Moreover  she  missed  her  mountain  winds; 
and  complained  there  was  no  air  to  breathe. 
The  housekeeper  said  it  was  ridiculous  the  fuss 
the  highland  girls  always  made  over  their 
heathenish  rocks  where  no  goat  could  laugh 
and  grow  fat.  But  the  under-housckeeper, 
who  still  retained  a  sneaking  fondness  for 
her  native  village,  soothed  her  ruffled  supe 
rior  on  the  one  side  and  unreasonable 
Vroni  on  the  other,  and  fortunately  it  was 
not  a  busy  time  at  the  castle,  for  the  count 
and  countess  were  gone  to  town  for  a  court 
dinner  and  a  series  of  family  festivities. 

Her    successive    tornadoes   left    Vroni    less 
pretty   perhaps   than   ever   before    in   her  life, 
yet  far  prettier  than  most  people  one  sees,  — 
which  is  perhaps  not  saying  much;   certainly 


Heart's  Dearest  67 

than  anybody  in  Schloss  Waldmohr,  not  ex 
cluding  the  countess  herself — as  still,  straight, 
and  not  a  little  gloomy,  she  followed  the  under- 
housekeeper  one  morning  into  the  great 
kitchen  where  were  assembled  smart  maids 
and  lackeys  in  agreeable  dalliance. 

She  hardly  looked  at  them,  was  wholly 
undazzled  by  the  Schloss  and  its  contents. 
Things  were  bigger,  brighter,  and  different 
from  what  she  had  known ;  that  was  all.  A 
group  of  Arab  Sheiks  suddenly  transported 
to  a  European  capital,  amazed  observers  not 
only  by  their  measureless  tact,  their  subterra 
nean  wisdom  and  angelic  courtesy,  but  by  their 
utter  indifference  to  much  of  the  complicated 
machinery  which  civilization  deems  of  over 
whelming  importance.  So,  too,  was  Vroni. 
The  untutored  mind  has  its  own  dignity. 

But  when  a  large,  dark,  clean-shaved  man 
with  a  white  cap  on  his  head  passed  her  cor 
ner,  she  took  him  for  a  person  of  importance 
—  which  he  emphatically  was  —  and  instinct 
ively  made  her  quick  reverence  as  when  she  met 
Father  Aloysius,  or  when  suddenly  on  one  of 
her  beechnut  or  snail  expeditions  the  gay 
hunting  gentlemen  flashed  upon  her  in  the 
dense  wood.  The  smart  maids  giggled  and 


68  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

jeered ;  but  the  French  cook,  perfectly  aware 
that  he  was  a  great  man,  deigned  not  unnatur 
ally  to  approve  her  innocent  homage ;  liked 
the  girl's  start  of  surprise,  her  flush,  her  spirited 
silence  as  she  faced  the  gigglers ;  liked  her 
defiance  and  what  in  a  lady  of  high  degree 
would  be  called  her  sheer  haughtiness ;  liked 
her  beauty  —  in  short  liked  her  altogether,  and 
in  a  twinkling  sent  forked  French  oaths  and 
terrifically  rolling  r's  shooting  and  crashing 
about  that  kitchen  over  the  heads  of  that 
canaill-l-l-l-le,  until  their  flippant  wit  was 
drenched,  and  they  remembered  pressing 
duties  elsewhere.  The  Paris  chef,  like  a 
great  Bourbon  in  exile,  was  merely  bid 
ing  his  time.  His  large  emoluments  could 
ill  console  him  for  his  sojourn  among  bar 
barians.  He  deplored  the  love  of  change, 
the  roving  disposition,  chagrin  at  losing  a 
position  to  which  he  had  aspired,  artistic 
temperament — call  it  what  one  would  — 
that  had  led  him  to  these  outskirts  of  civ 
ilization  where  he  was  subjected  to  great  and 
peculiar  tribulations. 

Twice  a  week  the  chef  disdained  not  to 
drive  to  market  and  stock  his  larder.  But 
even  he  himself  could  not  foresee  his  di/zy 


Heart's  Dearest  69 

flights  of  intellect,  hence  something  was  con 
tinually  wanting.  When  an  inspiration  of  his 
creative  genius  required  a  leaf,  a  mere  breath 
of  rare  spice,  an  all-important  nothing,  he  was 
obliged  to  send  a  groom  galloping  to  the  near 
est  market  town.  On  a  swift  horse  this  could 
be  done  in  two  hours.  Two  hours  back  made 
four.  An  hour  allowed  ostensibly  for  search 
ing  for  the  object  and  letting  the  animal  rest, 
but  in  reality  spent  in  gossiping  and  guzzling 
vile  beer,  made  five,  usually  nearer  six.  A 
pause  of  six  hours  on  the  brink  of  creation  ! 
Had  they  tied  the  hands  of  Michel  Ange  so 
long  whenever  the  giant  spirit  strove  to  reveal 
itself,  where  now  were  his  great  works !  Did 
the  imbeciles  suppose  a  genius  could  r&hauffer 
ideas  like  veal?  Besides,  whatever  the  object 
desired,  the  groom  usually  failed  to  fetch  it. 
Either  the  God-forsaken  land  produced  it  not, 
or  the  idiot  had  not  comprehended.  What  a 
country  !  What  privations  ! 

He  was  an  alien.  So  too  it  seemed  to  him 
was  the  handsome,  spirited,  glowering  little 
being  who  had  the  honor  to  win  his  protec 
tion  at  the  moment  of  her  entrance  into  official 
life  at  Waldmohr.  Although  some  very  fair 
sort  of  people  were  about  him,  his  prejudice 


jo  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

and  language  and  theirs  formed  insurmount 
able  obstacles.  Each  held  the  other's  speech, 
manners,  and  racial  traditions  to  be  superfluous 
and  grotesque.  Some  of  the  upper  maids 
spoke  bad  French,  which  he  ironically  declined 
to  recognize,  and  when  they  dared,  they  in  re 
turn  sniggered  at  his  broken  German.  Still  in 
a  certain  sense  he  was  sovereign  lord,  and 
kept  them  well  at  a  distance,  and  wronged 
his  amiable  disposition  by  assiduously  cul 
tivating  surliness  to  the  under-cooks,  from 
whom  he  jealously  guarded  his  professional 
secrets.  A  social,  chatty  being,  he  forced  him 
self  to  be  taciturn,  imagined  that  by  fraterniz 
ing  with  nobody,  he  was  in  some  vague  way 
upholding  a  great  country  and  great  art,  and 
until  Vroni  came  was  lonely  in  his  grandeur. 

Her  worldly  experience  he,  at  a  glance,  pre- 
ceived  hardly  surpassed  a  squirrel's,  but  also 
that  there  was  nothing  limp  in  her  understand 
ing.  She  would  have  comprehended  a  China 
man  had  she  liked  him,  and  she  liked  the  chef 
instantly,  freely,  in  good  comradeship,  neither 
fearing  nor  flattering  him.  Such  demeanor 
is  pleasing  to  liberal  monarchs. 

Her  legitimate  position  would  have  been 
in  the  outer  circles  among  underlings  and 


Heart's  Dearest  71 

novices.  With  a  wave  of  his  smooth  hand 
he  promoted  her.  He  kept  her  near  him, 
gave  her  small  tasks,  and  observed  her  criti 
cally.  Not  in  vain  was  she  Agathe's  daugh 
ter.  She  had  sensible  hands,  swift,  steady, 
wholesome,  and  clean-skinned,  brown  but 
never  rough.  They  could  almost  touch  pitch 
undefiled.  The  chef  watched  them  and  smiled 
astutely. 

"It  is  the  hand  of  the  artist  —  the  born 
cook,"  he  reflected ;  and  what  no  threat, 
money,  or  prayer  could  have  enticed  from 
him,  he  in  time  lavished  upon  her,  —  the 
fine  fruits  of  his  experience,  his  esoteric  wis 
dom.  It  was  his  good  pleasure,  his  royal 
whim. 

"  Little  do  you  suspect  what  I  am  doing,  my 
poor  child,  —  how  should  you  !  "  he  would 
sometimes  exclaim  with  a  queer  grimace. 
"  Never  mind !  The  day  will  come  when 
you  will  comprehend  and  bless  the  name 
of  Armand  Gireaud." 

However  wanting  in  aesthetic  appreciation 
of  the  subtleties  of  Pcrdreaux  dc  Rambonillet 
and  Pains  dc  canetons  rouennaisc,  Vroni  was 
practically  a  delightful  pupil  of  whom  her 
master  was  proud.  He  drilled  her  soundly 


72  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

in  the  fundamental  principles  of  cooking- 
ranges  ;  he  delivered  a  whole  series  of  im 
passioned  harangues  upon  awful  dinner  catas 
trophes  resulting  from  minimal  errors  in 
temperature;  he  took  her  to  market,  and  in 
culcated  his  own  refined  and  astute  methods 
of  selection  and  purchase.  Although  these 
appertained  to  a  higher  education  than  Rough 
Alp  philosophy  dreamed  of,  she  adopted  them 
with  marvellous  receptivity,  and  he  had  fre 
quent  occasion  to  chuckle  over  her  audacity 
and  keenness. 

As  for  head  reckoning,  it  was  her  specialty. 
When  grown-ups  had  fluttered  the  village 
school  —  the  ScJiultJiciss,  Father  Aloysius,  or 
old  Anton  —  and  the  wretched  Blasius,  wish 
ing  the  floor  would  open  and  swallow  him, 
had  stammered  that  America  was  an  island 
surrounded  by  water  and  occupied  by  black 
men  who  ate  fat  and  drove  sledges  drawn  by 
reindeer,  and  big  Anastasia  could  not  spell 
her  word,  and  sat  down  sobbing  stertorously, 
even  before  the  teacher  spoke,  all  the  children 
had  turned  their  frightened  eyes  toward  little 
Vroni  Lindl,  and  knew  she  would  stand  up  as 
bold  as  a  lion  and  do  sums  in  her  head  like 
lightning,  until  teacher  and  grown-ups  should 


Heart's  Dearest  73 

smirk  at  one  another  again.  So  finally  she 
went  to  market  for  the  chef,  thereby  re 
lieving  him  of  a  loathsome  task  in  this  strange 
land,  and  the  worthy  shop  people  from  fiend 
ish  objurgations  in  a  foreign  tongue.  She  be 
came  his  trusty  adjutant,  his  envoy,  riding 
gayly  to  town  on  sudden  secret  missions ;  and 
were  a  thing  to  be  had  for  money,  smiles, 
mother  wit,  or  insolence,  she  fetched  it  with 
a  zealous  speed  unknown  to  grooms,  and  laid 
it  in  triumph  at  her  master's  feet. 

She  was  the  only  person  he  would  tolerate 
in  his  presence  when  imagining  his  vast  com 
binations.  She  alone  stood  valiantly  by  his 
side  when  he  constructed  his  master-pieces 
for  festivities.  He  initiated  her  into  the  occult 
mysteries  of  sauces,  the  subtle  balminess  of 
creams,  advanced  her  rapidly  but  thoroughly 
through  a  whole  arcanum  of  entrees,  and  once, 
when  the  castle  was  full  of  guests,  folded  his 
arms  superbly  and  proclaimed  in  the  presence 
of  all  his  aproned  corybants :  — 

"  The  salmi  of  pheasant  for  lunch  will 
be  executed  by  Mademoiselle  Ve"ronique." 
Vroni,  quite  unconcerned,  "  executed "  the 
birds.  "It's  like  her  impudence,"  the  en 
vious  whispered.  Yet  she  bore  her  honors 


74  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

with  such  nonchalance,  was  so  like  a  hearty 
boy,  friendly  if  not  interfered  with,  but  re 
turning  evil  for  evil  with  startling  rapidity 
and  liberal  measure,  —  none  really  objected 
that  she  was  persona  gratis sima  with  the  chef, 
above  all  when  the  fact  was  patent  that  she 
coveted  nobody's  sweetheart. 

I  low  much,  how  exceedingly  much  in 
divers  ways  that  good  chef  did  for  her,  neither 
she  nor  Dionysius  the  weaver  ever  suspected. 
Not  only  was  Gireaud  occupying  her  con 
stantly,  keeping  her  happy  and  amused,  offi 
cially  training  her  brain  and  hands  in  the 
knowledge  of  manifold  delectable  receipts  of 
which  the  world  is  not  worthy,  and  unoffi 
cially  exercising  her  in  a  curiously  disorderly 
but  quite  available  method  of  speaking 
French  —  reversing  the  orderly  and  unavail 
able  methods  of  boarding  schools,  —  but  he 
constituted  himself  a  bristling  body-guard 
between  her  and  all  foolish  trifling,  coarse 
flattery,  or  even  honest  love-making,  which 
on  the  part  of  the  young  fellows  employed 
at  the  Schloss  would  have  been  in  his  preju 
diced  opinion  equally  detrimental. 

In  point  of  fact,  the  weaver's  Madel  was 
chaperoned  hardly  less  solicitously  than  the 


Heart's  Dearest  75 

chatelaine's  young  sister,  the  charming  Com- 
tesse  Nelka  von  Vallade.  From  early  morning 
until  late  at  night  the  chef  and  Vroni  were 
companions  at  work  and  in  the  hours  of  ease 
which  were  that  great  man's  prerogative. 
With  him  she  strolled  contentedly  in  the 
vegetable  gardens  where  he  wisely  kept  him 
self  in  touch  with  fair  smooth  candidates  for 
early  favor.  With  him  she  walked  by  the 
river,  and  even  went  to  the  fair,  where  he 
was  better  dressed  and  more  impressive  than 
the  count  himself. 

Being  as  yet  of  a  somewhat  haughty  and 
unmerciful  strain  toward  youths,  and  best 
accustomed  to  the  mature  gentleness  of  her 
beloved  weaver,  she  took  it  wholly  as  a 
matter  of  course  that  a  man  of  forty-five  or 
fifty  was  her  work  and  play-fellow.  It  was 
a  queer  intimacy,  and  a  queerer  jargon  that 
they  talked,  —  her  village-dialect,  his  broken 
German,  and  flights  of  French  mostly  far 
above  her  head. 

Sheltered  by  shrubbery  and  a  great  sweet- 
pea  trellis  on  the  edge  of  the  kitchen  garden 
was  a  pleasant  corner  frequented  by  the  chef 
after  the  engrossing  event  of  his  day,  dinner. 
Escaping  as  early  as  possible,  relegating  its 


76  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

mere  final  details  to  his  vassals,  he  loved  to 
array  himself  in  an  elegant  costume  of  viltt- 
giature,  and,  seated  upon  his  favorite  bench, 
read  his  "  Petit  Journal,"  smoke  cigarettes, 
chat  with  his  ttive  —  in  short,  unbend  and 
strive  to  forget  his  greatness  and  his  cares. 

From  this  haunt  Vroni  could  watch  strangers 
staying  at  the  Schloss  and  guests  of  an  even 
ing,  as  they  chatted  over  their  coffee  on  the 
veranda,  or  strolled  on  the  high  terrace  in 
the  long  summer  twilight:  pale-colored, 
fluffy  ladies  with  fans ;  black  and  white 
gentlemen  with  long  shining  shoes,  broad 
shining  shirt-fronts,  and  little  peaked  Bantam 
coat  tails;  blue,  red,  and  yellow  men,  gay 
with  gold  stripes  and  buttons.  Sometimes, 
too,  from  pantry  windows  she  caught  fleeting 
glimpses  of  them  riding  off,  two  by  two,  in  the 
sunshine,  knocking  balls  about  on  the  grass, 
or  whirling  on  wheels.  They  were  always  talk 
ing  very  much,  she  noticed,  always  terribly 
glad  to  see  one  another,  always  smiling  and 
nodding  and  sunning  themselves,  always  most 
pleasant  and  polite. 

She  regarded  them  without  envy,  almost  with 
out  wonder.  She  accepted  them  composedly, 
as  mere  facts  like  the  great  carved  stairway, 


Heart's  Dearest  77 

the  pictures  and  armor  in  the  hall,  the  many 
lights  in  the  dining-room,  and  the  multitude 
of  novel  observances  and  ceremonies  which 
from  time  to  time  obtained  from  her  a  cool 
little  stare  of  reconnoissance  and  nothing  more. 
But  gradually  the  living  picture  framed  by 
arching  trees,  the  panoramic  human  group 
gently  animated  in  movement  and  color  and 
gay  in  long  vista  beneath  the  castle  towers, 
began  to  exert  upon  her  a  subtle  influence  and 
fascination.  It  was  a  sort  of  al  fresco  theatre, 
a  puppet  show  for  the  weaver's  Madel.  From 
afar  she  became  familiar  with  the  salient  pecu 
liarities  of  her  high-born  dolls,  their  contours, 
gestures,  and  manners,  and  sitting  at  ease  upon 
the  grass  while  Gireaud  idly  read,  she  edified 
him  not  a  little  with  her  running  comments,  in 
which  much  downright  realism  was  manifest. 
She  gave  them  names  too,  unflattering,  irrev 
erent  indeed,  yet  marvellously  appropriate 
from  her  candid  and  impartial  point  of  view: 
a  stout  brunette  baroness  being  "  the  black 
Anastasia;"  a  red-nosed  major,  "  old  Anton;  " 
a  worn-out  beau  she  cheerfully  dubbed  "  Gran 
dad  ;  "  one  ancient  dame  of  prehistoric  line 
age  was  "  Tantc  Ursula "  ;  another,  fierce  of 
mien,  "  Frau  Widow  Boppel  "  —  she  who  was 


78  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

once  walled  up  ;  and  five  golden  youths  of  bluest 
blood,  from  some  trick  of  hair,  of  gait,  of  awk 
ward  adolescence,  were  respectively  "  Jorg," 
"Jokel,"  "Seppl,"  "Hans,"  and  "the  Distel- 
Bauer." 

This  mood  passed  also.  Fixing  her  clear 
eyes  on  those  denizens  of  another  world,  she 
would  grow  silent,  busy  with  novel  and  vague 
speculations,  and  knit  her  brows. 

"  Well,  Vronettc,  what  is  it  ? "  asked  the  chef 
one  evening.  "  You  look  as  solemn  as  zjuge 
d' instruct  ion." 

"Are  they  always  like  that,  M  'sieu  Armand  ?  " 

"  Always  how?  " 

"'Lazing  about,"  she  replied  graphically,  but 
without  malice.  "Always  in  Sunday  clothes. 
Always  jabbering,  all  at  once,  so  fast,  and  so 
dreadfully  glad  to  see  one  another.  Always 
so  chirpy  and  clucky." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously,  smiled,  and  laid 
aside  his  paper. 

"  Ma  foi,  child,  what  would  you  have?  After 
all  it  is  but  the  amiable  manner  of  good  society. 
You  would  not  wish  them  to  quarrel  ?  " 

"  Does  it  not  tire  them?  It  would  tire  me. 
Do  they  never  want  to  stop  and  do  something 
else?  Is  that  all  they  do?" 


Heart's  Dearest  79 

"  But  you  have  seen  them  riding." 

"  Riding  is  sense,"  she  deigned  to  con 
cede. 

"  And  playing  games ;  and  they  read  a  little 
and  dress  and  pay  visits,  and  dress  and  dine  — 
as  you  and  I  know,  Vronette.  Sapristi,  how 
society  eats !  How  grossly  much  and  with 
what  ignorance !  It  is  enough  to  make  one 
despair  of  human  progress,"  he  bewailed,  quite 
above  poor  Vroni's  range.  Yet,  strictly  con 
sidered,  what  spoken  words  are  not  above  or 
below  the  level  of  the  listener?  Then  from 
the  bland  depths  of  ignorance  where  Vroni 
sported,  she  had  a  startling  way  of  leaping  up 
and  seizing  an  idea.  "  I  gave  them  Saumon 
a  la  Margucry  for  lunch,"  he  continued  gloom 
ily.  "Who  knew  it  was  a  dish  for  gods?  Who 
will  remember?  " 

"  I,  M'sieu  Armand  !  "  was  the  gay  and  un 
expected  response.  "  For  you  explained  until 
you  grew  red  as  a  turkey-cock,  and  almost 
wept  because  I  laughed ;  and  you  made  me 
copy  it  in  German,  and  your  Kauterwelsch, 
and  yet  again  clean,  in  my  book.  Although 
I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  gods,  —  surely 
only  heathen  folk  have  more  than  one,  and 
they  arc  graven  images  that  cannot  eat,  — 


8o  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

and  though  I  do  not  roll  my  eyes  and  gasp, 
for,  after  all,  't  is  but  fish  in  a  thick  and  fussy 
sauce,  be  sure  I  '11  never  forget  it,  and  I  '11  do 
it  next  time  as  well  as  you  yourself,  so  cheer 
up,  M'sieu  Armand,"  she  airily  threw  an 
imaginary  pinch  of  salt  at  him  with  his  own 
gesture,  "  I  shall  remember." 

The  man,  with  droll  solemnity,  rejoined : 

"  Little  savage,  you  will,  I  know  you  will. 
It  is  that  which  is  my  consolation.  Mistake 
not,  I  cast  no  pearls  before  the  unworthy. 
You  sleep  now  like  what 's  her  name  in  the 
fairy  tale.  You  have  no  soul  like  the  other 
one.  But  you  will  arise ;  you  will  awaken  ;  you 
will  find  your  soul." 

"  Take  it  not  amiss  that  I  laugh,  M'sieu 
Armand.  I  understand  not  one  word  of  your 
speech  that  runs  like  olive  oil  from  a  two 
quart  bottle,  except  that  you  think  I  can  do 
the  fussy  fish ;  and  that  I  can,  to  the  twirl  of 
your  fingers.  But  for  my  life  I  cannot  help 
laughing  when  you  snap  your  eyes  and  take 
your  mouth  so  full." 

"  Laugh.  //  faut  quc  la  jeunessc  sc  passe. 
Then  above  the  gayety  of  heart  you  have  the 
man's  head.  You  seem  a  tcte  de  linottc,  but 
nothing  escapes  you.  Am  I  the  man  to  waste 


Heart's  Dearest  81 

myself?  Do  I  not  sharply  observe?  When 
had  I  to  tell  you  a  thing  twice?" 

"  You  are  so  very  solemn,  M'sieu  Armand, 
somehow  it  makes  me  laugh  the  more."  She 
sat  down  on  the  grass,  drew  up  her  knees,  put 
her  chin  in  her  hands  and  stared  at  him,  mirth 
and  beauty  in  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  an  impertinent  little  Vronette  grin 
ning  at  me  and  chewing  sweet-pea  stems,  all 
her  nice  white  teeth  but  too  visible  —  a  gamine. 
I  am  not  talking  to  her.  I  am  speaking  to 
quite  a  different  person  —  the  Vronette  of 
some  years  hence." 

Involuntarily  her  nonchalant  gaze  concen 
trated  itself  in  sudden  intelligence. 

"  To  her  I  say,"  he  continued  earnestly, 
dropping  his  bombast,  "  if  she  remembers  me 
and  my  words,  the  world  will  never  trample 
her  under-foot,  for  she  has  something  the 
world  wants." 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him  in  silent, 
grave  inquiry. 

"  Bah,  't  is  but  cooking !  "  she  exclaimed 
with  her  aggressive  incredulity,  and  began  to 
hum :  — 

"  Mein  Schatz  ist  ein  Weber, 
Ein  Weber  ist  er." 
6 


82  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

A  shade  of  despair  flitted  across  his  features. 
He  folded  his  arms  repressively  across  his 
portly  white  waistcoat. 

"  Never  mind,  Vronette,"  he  said  with  ad 
mirable  patience.  "  You  are  young.  You  are 
from  the  mountains.  You  are,  as  it  were,  like 
one  of  your  own  goats.  It  is  well.  I  com 
prehend.  I  simply  remark,  Wait." 

"  Wart!  'Tis  my  mother's  word,"  the  girl 
retorted  wickedly.  '"Tis  what  she  always 
shouted  when  coming  after  me  to  give  me  a 
good  one  on  the  ear —  but  I  waited  not,  M'sieu 
Armand  !  " 

"  Madame  votrc  mh'e  has  done  me  a  great 
service,"  he  returned  gallantly.  "I  have  to 
thank  her  and  monsieur  votrc  p£re  also  for  the 
only  pleasure  I  have  known  in  this  sad  country 
—  the  society  of  their  child.  For  truly  you 
cheer  me  much,  Vronette.  You  amuse  me." 

"  And  you  me,  M'sieu  Armand,  you  me," 
she  rejoined  with  pleasing  alacrity.  "  T  is 
true  I  've  nearly  died  of  laughter  over  many, 
and  most  perhaps  till  now  over  Blasius  and 
Seppl  —  but  never  yet  did  I  see  anybody  quite 
so  droll  as  you." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows,  but  smiled  indul 
gently. 


Heart's  Dearest  83 

"  Voyons,  Vronctte,  now  that  you  are  reason 
able  and  no  longer  shaking  from  top  to  toe,  let 
me  recount  you  a  little  tale.  The  mood  is  on 
me.  Who  knows?  It  may  not  return.  Before 
we  part,  it  is  well  you  hear.  The  daughter  of  a 
colleague  is  cordon  bleu  in  a  Danish  palace,  a 
woman  of  the  stature  of  a  grenadier,  but  in  her 
creations,  what  subtlety,  what  exquisite  senti 
ment  !  Well,  I  was  ambitious.  I  longed  to 
have  my  only  daughter  emulate  her.  Not  only 
because  I  had  no  son  to  inherit  my  art,  my 
traditions,  and  my  honorable  reputation,  but 
because  I  worship  the  sex.  I  adore  it.  More 
than  that  I  have  faith  in  it.  I  am  a  modern 
man.  I  have  always  believed,  given  talents  and 
the  necessary  training  and  women  could  rise 
to  great  heights  even  in  my  difficult  profes 
sion.  Yet  what,  I  ask  you,  is  more  prosaic, 
more  uninspired  a  figure  than  the  average 
woman  cook  !  A  lamentable  bungler  ! 

o 

"  Many  a  hot  argument  upon  this  theme 
had  I  with  a  friend,  a  lady's  tailor  by  pro 
fession,  he  declaring  for  the  finest  needle 
work  in  his  province,  for  things  requiring 
not  only  precision  but  delicacy  of  feeling, 
he  could  employ  only  men.  Bows,  for  in 
stance,  —  adorable  butterfly  bows,  he  insisted, 


84  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

men  fashioned  best;  while  I  contended  in 
lovely  woman  was  an  amed'tlitc  that  needed 
but  right  conditions  to  reveal  itself.  You 
follow  me,  Vronette?" 

"Nay,  scarce  one  word  in  a  score,  M'sicu,  " 
she  returned  blithely.  "But  that 'sail  right. 
I  'm  comfortable.  Go  on.  " 

"  Well,  I  named  my  child  Armande,  and 
took  her  young,  as  one  takes  any  artiste  —  for 
the  traphc  —  for  the  violin  —  I  gave  myself 
all  pains.  I  labored  with  enthusiasm ;  but 
'twas  a  chagrin  —  a  fatality.  She  was  docile, 
ah,  yes,  she  was  intelligent;  but,  Jiclas,  she  had 
not  the  temperament,  she  had  no  touch  of 
greatness  —  no  fire.  " 

"No  fire!  Then  how  could  .you  expect 
her  to  cook,"  demanded  Vroni,  with  her  cool 
stare. 

"Ah,  Vronette,  I  speak  of  the  ideal  fire  — 
lefen  sacrS!  " 

"  Don't  know  it.  Is  it  coal  or  cokes?" 
'  That  is  unimportant.  Let  us  pass  on  to 
facts.  I  renounced  my  hope.  I  perceived  my 
Armande  as  cook  would  never  get  beyond  a 
bourgeoise  mediocrity.  Besides  her  mother 
leaned  to  bonnets.  Armande  went  into  bon 
nets.  She  is  in  bonnets  now  in  the  Rue  St. 


Heart's  Dearest  85 

Honore.  I  was  for  some  time  jealous  of  those 
bonnets,  and,  it  may  be,  unjust,  but  that  is  past. 
Her  business  name  is  like  yours,  Veronique. 
'Tis  a  good  business  name.  She  has  it  in 
large  gold  and  white  letters  over  her  door. 
She  has  succeeded."  In  his  voice,  in  spite  of 
its  elegiac  strain,  was  a  vestige  of  pride.  "  Per 
haps  now,  Vronette,  you  comprehend  better 
my  interest,  my  fervor,  and  why  I  train  you 
with  the  training  of  the  man  and  the  artist. 
You  are,  as  it  were,  the  resurrection  of  a  lost 
hope." 

"I  know  when  people  are  good  to  me,"  she 
replied  sagely,  nodding  at  him  with  pretty 
graciousness  over  the  flowers  in  her  hands. 
"That  much  I  know." 

"'Tis  enough  for  to-day,  my  child.  The 
rest  will  arrive.  For  you  have  the  head,  the 
hands,  the  temperament,  and  't  is  Armand 
Gireaud  who  is  giving  the  instruction. 
Wait !  "  he  exclaimed  with  a  large  and  pro 
phetic  gesture. 

"As  for  bonnets,"  he  resumed,  after  cross 
ing  his  fine  shoes  and  contemplating  the  vault 
of  heaven,  "  I  do  not,  at  present,  flatly  deny 
the  charm  of  bonnets."  He  surveyed  with 
benevolent  reminiscence  the  bunch  of  lilac 


86  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

and  purple  sweet-peas  Vroni  was  weaving  into 
her  wreath.  "  They  offer,  I  concede,  a  cer 
tain  field  for  fancy  and  fine  feeling.  Then 
they  are  instructive.  My  Armande  writes  she 
has  invented  a  shape  for  the  American  head. 
Scientific  researches,  it  appears,  have  ascer 
tained  the  American  head  possesses  neither 
reverence  nor  romance.  Evidently  it  requires 
its  specific  bonnet.  Interesting  that!  They 
now  construct  a  sort  of  phreno-ethnological 
capote.  What  think  you,  Vronette?" 

"  Naught  of  your  gibberish,  M'sieu  Armand, 
if  you  don't  mind,  and  all  to  myself,  that 
were  my  father  here  I  'd  make  this  wreath  for 
him,  for  'tis  a  posy  that  he  loves." 

"I've  fatigued  you  with  my  long  dis 
course?  " 

"  Nay,"  she  rejoined  serenely,  "  for  I  've  not 
listened  overmuch." 

"  I  was  merely  about  to  say  what  I  always 
tell  my  daughter,  that  millinery,  in  spite  of 
certain  meretricious  charms,  is  but  a  fickle, 
fragile  thing,  and  no  great  essential  art  like 
mine.  After  all,  one  could  exist  without 
bonnets." 

"  Why,  of  course,"  cheerily  assented  bonnet- 
less  Vroni.  "When  you  are  young,  you  have 


Heart's  Dearest  87 

your  hair;  and  when  you  are  old,  you  wear 
your  kerchief.  But  cooks,  too,"  she  added 
shrewdly  after  a  moment.  "  The  world  could 
get  along  without  cooks." 

"  Ingrate ! " 

"  It  could  eat  apples  and  nuts,"  she  affirmed 
stoutly.  "I  like  apples.  And  potatoes  boil 
themselves.  Then  there  's  milk.  Oh,  yes, 
M'sieu  Armand,  quite  enough  to  eat  without 
fussy  cooking  like  ours." 

He  smiled  at  the  implied  co-partner 
ship. 

"To  be  sure  it  earns  good  wages,"  she  con 
tinued  joyously;  "I  send  such  a  lot  home, 
and  heaps  more  than  if  I  'd  been  put  with  the 
scullery-maids  instead  of  with  you.  Besides 
I  like  to  be  with  you,"  she  said,  in  her  warm 
and  resolute  fashion.  "I  like  you,"  with  a 
lovely  smile  of  confidence  and  affection.  "I 
like  men  better  than  women,"  she  added  re 
flectively.  "  Men  are  not  so  silly  as  maids 
—  that  is,  nice  old  men.  There  's  my  father, 
and  there  's  you." 

She  put  her  wreath,  a  good  solid  one  as  was 
the  fashion  in  Hexenfels,  well  down  on  her 
forehead,  and,  rising,  took  her  old  place  of 
observation. 


88  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"There  's  a  new  one,"  she  said  quickly,  "a 
pink  one."  After  a  moment,  "I  like  her." 

The  chef  got  up. 

"Ah,"  nodding  approval,  "it  is  the  count 
ess's  sister,  Comtesse  Nelka  von  Vallade. 
Yes,  she  is  gcntille." 

"I  like  her,"  repeated  Vroni. 

"  So  soon  ?     Why  ?  " 

"  Does  one  know  why  —  soon  or  late  ?  Red 
Lisl  I  did  ever  like,  black  Anastasia  never; 
but  why  I  could  not  tell  you  for  your  life." 

He  reseated  himself. 

"  I  heard  she  was  expected  to-day  on  her 
wheel,  with  her  brothers." 

"  It  must  be  nice  on  a  wheel  —  like  a  witch. 
Oh,  M'sieu  Armand,  they  are  jumping,  the 
blue  and  white  brothers.  Ha,  I  can  do  that! 
He  need  not  look  so  pleased  with  himself. 
Now  the  other  brother  is  going  over  the  same 
hedge.  He 's  smiling  too.  Ach,  was  !  'T  is 
but  a  baby  jump.  Oh,  see,  she 's  running 
down,  the  pretty  one !  She  wants  to  jump  it 
too.  Of  course.  And  better  than  they  I 
make  no  doubt.  Oh,  Weh,  oh,  Weh  !  They 
are  shaking  fans  at  her.  They  've  stopped 
her.  An  old  lady  's  got  her  now,  and  put  her 
up  there  in  the  row  of  grinny  people.  But 


Heart's  Dearest  89 

she  does  not  like  it,   M'sieu  Armand.     She 
cannot  bear  it." 

"I  presume  not,"  he  replied  with  a  little 
laugh,  "  But  the  Comtesse  Nelka  von  Vallade 
may  not  jump  hedges." 

"  When  I  tell  you  she  could  !  "  she  retorted 
indignantly.  "Bah,  'tis  so  easy.  Lookout, 
M'sieu  Armand!"  and  over  his  iron-backed 
bench  she  flew. 

"I  said  may  not,  not  cannot,"  he  explained, 
amiably  re-adjusting  himself.  "  I  doubt  not  her 
capacity,  though  she  be  no  wildfire.  On  her 
horse  she  may  jump  it,  not  on  her  own  two  feet." 

"Is  that  sense?"  demanded  Agathe's 
daughter. 

"That  I  do  not  pretend  to  say,  but  it  is 
commc  il  fant — it  is  propriety." 

"  But  she  may  ride  that  wheel." 

"That  is  the  fashion,"  he  rejoined,  amused. 
"Ah,  wild  little  Vronette,  do  not  look  so  puz 
zled  !  Truly  you  have  much  to  learn,  but 
even  that  task  may  be  accomplished  with  the 
help  of  the  bon  Dieu." 

Charming  and  pensive  under  her  heavy 
wreath  of  sweet-peas,  she  still  regarded  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  remarked  medita 
tively  :  • — 


90  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"  They  do  not  earn  money  and  send  it  home 
to  their  parents? " 

"  But  no—     You  know  that  without  asking. " 

"I  knew  it,"  she  said  slowly;  "but  never 
had  it  in  my  thoughts.  Then  the  parents 
earn  the  money  ?  " 

"Sometimes  the  father  earns  it;  sometimes 
he  has  it  without  earning." 

"Oh,"  she  muttered,  with  a  thoughtful  air. 
"  And  the  pretty  Comtesse  Nelka,  who  must  not 
jump  a  wee  little  hedge  —  her  father  works  for 
her?  How  does  he  work?  "  Her  face  grew 
soft,  for  she  saw  the  front  room,  the  loom, 
and  the  dear  weaver  weaving  early  and 
late. 

"  Count  Vallade  is  Cabinet-Chef  —  and 
thankless  business  it  is,  so  far  as  I  know. 
He  works  like  a  galley  slave.  I  do  not  envy 
him,"  observed  the  other  sort  of  chef,  with 
fraternal  commiseration.  "He's  worn  to 
death  with  papers  and  the  King  and  State 
affairs,  you  know." 

"Oh,  is  he?"  she  murmured,  with  the  same 
gravity.  "  Does  he  earn  much  ?  " 

"Not  so  very  much,"  he  replied,  amused 
at  her  persistence.  "  Certainly  not  enough. 
For  he  has  heavy  expenses  and  only  his  salary. 


Heart's  Dearest  91 

Mafoi,  three  gay  lieutenants  are  no  bagatelle 
in  a  man's  budget." 

"  Surely  the  big  grown  sons  earn  their  own 
living!" 

"  By  no  means.  He  has  to  allow  them  some 
thing  every  month  to  eke  out  their  pay." 

"  The  lazy  louts !  They  ought  to  be 
ashamed." 

"It  is  but  the  way  of  their  world,"  he 
returned  indifferently.  "They  have  to  live 
according  to  their  station,  I  presume." 

"Why?" 

"  Well,  I  hear  the  valets  say  so.  They 
seem  to  know.  They  have  it  all  glib  on  their 
tongues.  They  say  the  old  count  is  a  good 
sort  and  terribly  hard  pressed.  They  say  the 
young  men  are  high-livers  with  horses,  wines, 
gaming,  and  the  rest,  —  Count  Benno's  pace  is 
the  worst  of  all.  They  say  it  's  a  lucky  thing 
the  older  daughter,  Comtesse  Clotilde,  got 
Count  Waldmohr,  and  that  the  younger  is 
soon  to  marry  that  old  wreck,  Baron  von 
Frege,  who  is  rich  as  Monte  Christo.  And 
they  say  the  sooner  young  Flemming  is  out 
of  the  way,  the  better  for  the  Vallade  pro 
jects,  for  the  young  people  are  sweethearts 
from  the  cradle.  There  you  have  a  whole 


92  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

fenillcton,  Vronette.  Wait,  let  me  see  if  old 
Frege  is  still  there.  He  is  leaning  against 
the  veranda  railing  near  Comtesse  Nelka. 
He  'd  better  put  on  a  shawl.  It  's  getting 
damp.  Young  Flemming  stands  on  the  other 
side  of  her,  and  won't  budge." 

"  Du,  meine  Giite !  The  yellow  cheeked 
one  with  the  beak  and  the  whalebone  legs ! 
Grandad ! " 

"And  the  wig  and  the  teeth  and  the  cor 
sets.  Yes,  that  's  the  sort  he  is.  And  it  's 
not  the  worst  of  him,"  muttered  the  French 
man  under  his  moustache. 

"  Does  she  want  him  ?  "  she  asked,  with  even 
and  long-drawn  emphasis. 

"Of  course  not,  infant!  Can  you  not 
comprehend  ?  The  brothers  living  as  they 
do  and  must  —  the  father  half  distracted,  the 
mother  urging  on  the  match  !  And  Comtesse 
Nelka  can  help  no  end  when  once  she  gets 
those  millions." 

"The  witch-faced  man  will  give  them  to 
her,  and  she  will  give  them  to  the  others?" 

"Somewhat,  if  not  precisely  so." 

"She  ought  to  go  to  work,"  said  Vroni,  in 
a  clear  and  rather  stern  voice.  "  It  would  be 
better  and  more  sensible.  In  Hexenfels,  we 


Heart's  Dearest  93 

work  and  help  when  we  are  small,  but  earn  no 
wages.  When  we  are  grown,  our  kind  earns 
wages.  I  would  no  longer  want  my  father  to 
do  all  for  me  as  if  I  were  a  child,"  adding, 
with  fine  irony  :  "  'T  is  true  youths  plant  trees, 
and  bring  fresh  pork,  and  hang  about  the  stile, 
and  make  frog-eyes  at  one  amazingly.  Young 
men  are  prone  to  do  such  things.  It  is  their 
foolish  nature.  What  matters  it  ?  It  dis 
turbs  nobody.  My  mother  is  for  marrying. 
My  father  not.  I  take  after  my  father,"  she 
concluded  with  dignity. 

In  the  girl's  mind  seemed  a  sudden  awaken 
ing,  lurking  in  her  childishness  a  certain 
serious  strength  and  consecutive  grasp  of 
things  hitherto  unperceived. 

"  Bravo,  Vronette !  " 

"Why  should  you  laugh?"  she  asked,  a 
little  nettled.  "  I  but  mean  sense.  It  is  all 
quite  easy  to  understand.  If  the  Comtesse 
Nelka  would  learn  to  work,  she  could  earn  her 
own  bread.  That  would  help  her  father  when 
he  is  weary  at  nightfall,  and  she  need  not 
marry  the  man-witch.  As  for  her  three 
brothers,  —  shame  on  their  lazy  bones,  —  she 
should  give  them  a  piece  of  her  mind." 

"  Quite  true.     Only  great  people  have  an- 


94  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

other  way  of  looking  at  things.  But  you 
need  not  glare  at  me,  Vronette.  I  am  not 
responsible  for  their  bctiscs.  I  merely  fill  my 
place,"  he  said  with  the  serene  air  of  one 
who  had  reason  to  suspect,  were  all  places  as 
faultlessly  filled,  this  world  would  be  a  very 
different  caravansary.  "Come,  child,  let  us 
move  on." 

Thus  Vroni,  from  one  point  of  vision  and 
another,  got  dissolving  views  of  what  Gircaud 
called  le  beau  monde  s  curious  antics,  —  of 
what  the  higher,  so-called  educated  classes 
who  needed  not  to  toil  or  spin  deemed  expe 
dient  and  indispensable,  in  short,  of  their 
standard  of  greatness ;  and  pondered  some 
what,  but  not  unhealthily  much,  upon  these 
things.  The  routine  appointed  for  her  by 
her  master  held  her  in  firm  discipline,  his 
ample  aegis  never  failed;  through  the  more  or 
less  perilous  flunkydom  of  the  great  house  — 
the  snobbish  valets  were  at  first  fresh  country 
lads  who  but  imitated  their  master's  pretty 
manners  —  the  girl  passed  unmolested.  She 
had  scarcely  an  adventure. 

Once  a  piano-man,  as  she  dubbed  him,  a 
well  dressed,  smart  sort  of  person  with  a 
waxed  moustache,  who  had  superintended  the 


Heart's  Dearest  95 

transport  of  a  grand  piano  from  town  and, 
after  setting  it  on  its  legs,  tried  it  at  some 
length  with  musical  touch  and  haunting  melo 
dies,  found  her  leaning  by  the  door  just  in 
his  path  —  her  head  thrown  back,  her  brown 
eyes  dreamy. 

In  the  gloating  sultan  humor  of  his  kind  he 
pinched  her  cheek  and  stooped  suggestively. 

"  Wait  /"  was  the  fierce  response,  and  Vroni 
"up  and  at "  him  with  a  resounding  whack  on 
his  right  ear. 

"  Donney wetter ! "  muttered  the  man,  but 
laughed  and  turned  to  look  as  she  fled  down 
the  corridor.  Her  anger  spent,  she  gave  the 
trifling  episode  no  thought. 

On  some  sudden  quest  for  the  lord  of  the 
larder  whose  exalted  need,  rejecting  new-laid 
eggs,  sweet  cream,  fat  capons,  savory  herbs, 
demanded  things  still  fresher,  sweeter,  richer, 
fatter,  more  aromatic,  rare,  and  marvellous, 
choicer  than  earth's  choicest  —  say  a  roc's  egg, 
or  la  rose  trois  fois  cxquise,  she  for  a  brief 
season  passed  frequently  a  quiet  figure  sitting 
alone  in  a  corner  of  the  courtyard,  a  man  in  uni 
form,  evidently  an  officer's  BurscJi,  and  stared 
well  at  him  because  of  his  hair,  which  was  lint 
white  and  standing  up  thick  like  a  brush. 


96  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

One  day  he  was  holding  a  big  spaniel's 
nose  between  his  knees.  She,  a  little  blue 
jug  in  her  hand,  stopped  and  watched  him 
solicitously  extract  a  thorn  from  the  animal's 
head. 

"  Did  you  get  it  all  ? "  she  demanded  eagerly, 
drawing  near. 

He  looked  up  and  nodded,  but  instantly 
dropped  his  eyes,  abashed  by  the  nearness  of 
the  beatific  vision  he  had  for  days  watched 
flitting  hither  and  thither,  patted  the  dog 
awkwardly,  and  let  him  go. 

"What's  your  name?"  she  asked,  not  un 
graciously  for  her. 

The  big  fellow  again  raised  a  pair  of  honest 
childlike  eyes  of  bluest  blue,  and  stared  help 
lessly  at  her. 

"Well?"  she  said  curtly.  "Don't  you 
know  your  own  name  ?  " 

His  mouth  twitched  nervously,  but  no  word 
issued  from  it  in  the  radiant  presence  of  Our 
Lady  of  the  Jug. 

"Tovvhead,  I  doubt  not,"  she  suggested, 
her  smile  mocking,  her  manner  hard. 

Then  the  dumb  spake. 

"Towhead  they  've  called  me  all  my  life," 
he  answered  gently,  with  thick,  slow  utter- 


Heart's  Dearest  97 

ance,  but  not  without  manliness.     "  My  name 
is  Tiber.      I  'm  Count  Benno's  extra  man." 

Before  the  steady  blue  of  his  eyes,  and  a  cer 
tain  patience  in  his  voice,  her  mood  wavered. 

"Ac/i,  so  'was/"  she  murmured,  frowned, 
turned  brusquely  on  her  heel  and  walked  off. 

The  man  sighed  from  the  very  depths  of 
his  long  riding  boots,  into  which  his  body 
seemed  to  sink  disconsolate. 

But  presently  he  started  and  sat  up  alert, 
for  she  came  tripping  down  from  the  house, 
her  white  apron  greeting  him  like  a  flag  of 
truce,  her  beautiful  hair  shining  in  the  sun, 
on  her  lips  glad  tidings,  and  in  her  hands  a 
heaped-up  plate  and  a  foaming  tankard. 

"Towhead,"  she  began,  "  't  is  no  harm  thou 
art  slow  of  tongue.  'T  were  better  others 
jabbered  less.  Take  it  not  ill  that  I  was 
hasty,  Towhead.  'T  is,  'tis,  "she  hesitated, 
"'tis  my  way  ofttimes, "  smiling  negligently 
with  a  sort  of  imperial  candor.  "Here's 
some  fine  bits  I  have  begged  for  thee  from 
M'sieu  Armand.  Art  a  brave  lad  and  good 
to  dogs,"  she  concluded,  artlessly  patronizing, 
as  if  he  himself  were  some  big  four-footed 
thing  she  was  patting  on  the  back.  "  So 
there  !  And  now,  good-day. " 
7 


98  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

Poor  Tiber  saw  her  go,  and  other  clays  he 
saw  her  pass,  but  always  far  away.  Never 
again  at  Schloss  Waldmohr  did  our  Sunny 
Lady  of  the  Jug  descend  upon  his  humble 
awkwardness,  to  make  his  heart  beat  high, 
his  tongue  cleave  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth, 
and  his  whole  being  bask  in  inexplicably  mis 
erable  blessedness  or  thrice-blessed  misery. 
Once  on  the  high-road  she  smiled  and  nodded 
brightly,  as  he  was  exercising  Count  Benno's 
Fuchs;  again  by  the  river  she  remembered 
him,  and  was  not  too  proud  to  give  him 
friendly  greeting,  though  both  times  she  was 
walking  with  a  most  distinguished-looking 
gentleman  in  a  top  hat.  But  Tiber  got  no 
ghost  of  a  chance  to  speak  to  her.  For  it 
happened  that  during  the  remaining  fortnight 
of  Count  Benno's  stay,  Maitre  Gireaud,  Chei 
de  Cuisine  and  Cordon  Bleu,  required  of  his 
willing  and  fleet-footed  messenger  nothing 
whatever  that  necessitated  voyages  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  courtyard.  His  prolific  imag 
inings,  one  and  all,  floated  persistently  in  a 
contrary  direction. 

When,  after  a  twelve  months'  absence, 
Vroni  shone  again  upon  Hexenfels  —  the 
count  and  countess  having  closed  the  house 


Heart's  Dearest 


99 


to  spend  a  winter  in  Egypt  —  she  was  approxi 
mately  a  trained  French  cook,  had  somewhat 
softened  manners,  and  called  her  headache 
her  migraine,  but  otherwise,  as  Dionysius  the 
weaver  perceived  with  his  first  searching  look 
in  her  glad  good  eyes,  was  the  self-same 
Madel,  and  he  thanked  his  God  for  her  as 
they  walked  hand-in-hand  through  their 
meagre  grain-fields. 

It  was  again  the  time  of  the  mighty  north 
winds,  swinging  east  and  back  again,  swift  as 
a  cruel  thought,  —  uprooting  stout  trees,  and 
uplifting  roofs,  for  all  their  freight  of  stones. 
Vroni  would  whisk  together  the  ingredients 
of  an  aerial,  foam-born  omelette  with  a  virtu' 
osity  which  left  her  mother  struggling  be 
tween  open-mouthed  admiration  and  stubborn 
prejudice  in  favor  of  ancestral  methods,  and 
a  "pan-cake  with  a  bite  to  it."  But  in  that 
frugal  household  was  small  demand  for  the 
girl's  unsuspected  adeptship.  The  long  win 
ter  was  staring  them  in  the  face,  and  the 
great  snowdrifts  which  settled  early,  and  lay 
so  long  on  the  Rough  Alp,  would  soon  be 
closing  round  them. 

Dionysius  longed  to  keep  her  always  near 
him,  so  fond,  so  clinging,  so  sad  with  pre- 


ioo  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

science  was  his  tenderness  for  his  child.  But 
Agathe  argued  to  what  end?  and  counted 
often,  and  with  cheerful  clinking,  the  last 
little  pile  of  gold,  earned  at  Schloss  Wald- 
mohr.  The  maid  had  begun  briskly ;  'twere 
folly,  sin,  and  shame  to  stop  her  now.  When 
he  was  a  bit  ailing,  he  always  hung  his  head; 
but,  Du  licbcr  Gott,  was  that  a  reason  why  she 
should  sit  idle  all  winter,  and  hold  his  hand, 
for  all  the  world  as  if  they  were  courting? 

By  the  time  Hexenfels  lay  snowbound,  all 
laughter  and  sunshine  had  fled  from  the 
lonely  cottage  under  the  crag.  Agathe,  self- 
sufficient,  bustled,  toiled,  and  talked;  while 
Dionysius,  sallowcr,  aging  visibly,  silent, 
languid,  worked  when  he  had  strength  enough, 
—  and  when,  indeed,  he  had  not  —  and  pined 
in  secret  for  his  heart's  dearest,  his  youngest, 
his  nestling,  who  this  time  had  spread  her 
wings  for  a  longer,  stronger  flight. 


Heart's  Dearest  101 


V 

"ARE  you  sure  you  can  do  all  this?"  de 
manded  the  Countess  von  Vallade,  examin 
ing,  with  surprise,  a  copious  document  signed 
with  the  simplicity  of  greatness,  Gireand, 
Schloss  Waldmohr  —  and  glancing  alternately 
at  its  explicit  statements,  and  their  youthful 
subject. 

"If  he  says  so,"  replied  Vroni,  who  had 
spelled  out  as  yet  but  a  mere  fraction  of  the 
long  and  eloquent  tribute  to  her  skill,  which 
he,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  had  implored  her 
to  regard  all  her  life  as  her  most  precious  pos 
session  and  talisman. 

"While  you  have  that  you  will  never  want. 
To-day  you  snap  your  fingers.  One  day  you 
will  comprehend,  my  poor  child.  See,  I  give 
it  you  in  this  strong  leather  case,  with  a  stout 
lock  and  key.  Keep  your  receipt  book  also 
in  it.  Guard  both  as  your  life.  It  is  my 
solemn  parting  word,  my  little  friend,  —  my 


IO2  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

dawning    colleague,    I    hesitate    not    to    pro 
nounce  you,   I,   Gireaud. " 

The  good  soul  also  presented  her  with  a 
beautiful  framed  photograph  of  the  castle. 
Across  the  whole  lower  margin  of  the  pict 
ure  was  writ  large :  Residence  of  Armand 
Gireaud  from  May  3,  189-  to  Sept.  2,  189-, 
sixteen  months  and  seventeen  days. 

"  Nur  die  Lumpen  sind  bescheiden  ; 
Brave  freuen  sich  der  That." 

The  countess  was  seated  at  her  writing- 
table,  —  one  of  those  dwarfed  and  painful  little 
monsters  called  specifically  ladies'  writing- 
tables,  ornate,  unsteady,  and  bow-legged ;  its 
small  surface  so  littered  with  cheap  bronzes, 
statuettes,  crystal  toys,  vases,  and  other  frag 
ile  nonsense,  no  robust  thought  had  room 
to  stretch  itself.  One  would  never  have 
suspected  the  modern  meretricious  thing  pos 
sessed  a  secret  drawer.  Putting  up  her  lor 
gnette  she  dubiously  surveyed  the  young  girl 
standing  before  her. 

"She  is  incredibly  young  to  be  able  to  do 
entire  dinners,"  remarked  the  lady  in  French, 
to  her  charming  daughter,  who,  reclining  in 
a  low  chair,  was  doing  nothing  at  all,  unless 


Heart's  Dearest  103 

candidly  admiring  one's  shoes  may  be  called 
an  occupation. 

"  Clotilda  gave  us  heavenly  dinners  at 
Waldmohr  —  simply  heavenly  !  "  returned  the 
fair  Nelka,  with  a  dreamy  smile  that  would 
have  inspired  a  poet. 

"  Exactly,  and  this  man  actually  asserts 
this  girl  did  a  good  part  of  them." 

"Try  her  —  she  looks  so  nice,"  said  Jella, 
amiably. 

"  Her  appearance  is  against  her.  She  is 
too  pretty  for  her  station." 

"  I  like  them  pretty.  If  I  could  have  my 
way,  all  the  frights  should  be  suppressed  by 
royal  decree,"  Nelka  retorted,  pretty  enough 
herself  to  dare  to  be  magnanimous. 

"Yes,  yes;  but  beauty  in  one's  kitchen  is 
startlingly  out  of  place." 

"It  does  not  hurt  the  cooking!"  suggested 
Vroni,  grave  and  impartial. 

Nelka  laughed  aloud. 

"  You  understand  French  ?  " 

"Oh,  as  much  as  that." 

Again  Nelka  laughed,  Vroni  knew  not  why. 

"  Any  more  ?  "  asked  the  young  lady, 
amused. 

Now  Vroni,  the  unsubdued,  was  beginning 


IO4  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

to  feel  strangely  ill  at  ease  under  the  discom 
fort  of  an  ordeal  at  best  confusing  and  dis 
heartening —  as  even  ladies  of  quality  might 
perceive,  should  superior  beings  stand  them 
up,  subject  them  to  cold  and  vaguely  inimical 
scrutiny,  and  cross-examine  them  solely  as  to 
what  they  were  good  for;  but  she  answered 
sturdily:  — 

"Not  the  fancy  words  my  master  sometimes 
spoke ;  but  useful  talk  he  taught  me :  the 
names  of  kitchen  things  and  cookery  —  and 
millc  tonncrres  and  saprelotte  and  such,"  she 
added,  unsmiling  and  literal. 

"Well,  she  is  a  character,"  began  the  count 
ess  in  English.  "  I  hope  she  is  not  always  so 
familiar." 

"  It 's  not  her  fault.  I  led  her  on.  Besides, 
where  's  the  harm  ?  " 

"  You  seem  to  have  several  names  on  your 
certificate.  What  are  you  usually  called?" 

"Vroni  Lindl  is  my  name." 

"Well,  Vroni,"  interrogated  the  countess, 
her  voice  both  haughty  and  suspicious,  —  that 
chilly,  remote,  pre-judging  voice  with  which 
women,  otherwise  not  ungentle,  elect  to  open 
relationships  with  their  humble  handmaids, 
—  "are  you  sure  you  are  quite  steady?  No 


Heart's  Dearest  105 

followers,  eh?  Because  nothing  of  the  sort 
could  be  thought  of  an  instant  in  a  house  of 
this  character." 

Vroni,  greatly  enjoying  neither  lorgnette 
nor  voice,  and  finding  the  question  alto 
gether  preposterous,  flushed  and  frowned,  but, 
meeting  the  kind  bright  gaze  of  the  young 
comtesse,  recovered  herself,  and  smiling 
shrewdly  in  reminiscence  of  floating  red 
cravat-ends,  and  blushing  swains  enthroned 
on  stiles,  said,  with  enchanting  carelessness, 
looking  straight  at  Nelka  :  — 

"Oh— they!" 

Instructions  as  to  privileges,  perquisites,  and 
other  details  followed,  and  were  quickly  set 
tled.  It  was  evident  Vroni  was  most  eager 
to  come,  and  not  greedy  of  gain.  But  imper 
ceptible  to  them,  to  herself  undefinable,  was 
the  sudden  depression  in  her  heart's  barome 
ter  which  indicated  many  degrees  less  sun 
shine  than  when  she  crossed  the  threshold  of 
that  cheerful  morning-room.  Gireaud,  though 
masterful,  had  from  the  first  consulted  her, 
asked  her  what  she  thought  and  liked,  led 
her  to  tell  him  of  her  home  and  people,  and 
otherwise  paid  tacit  respect  to  her  personal 
ity,  to  that  unruly  little  personality  which, 


io6  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

whether  reprimanded  or  adored,  had  never  in 
its  rude  home  known  neglect.  But  the  Count 
ess  von  Vallade,  pre-assuming  this  beautiful 
and  fresh  young  thing  was  but  a  contingent 
section  of  the  household  machinery,  — a  vexa 
tious  section  indeed,  apt  to  generate  excess 
of  friction,  and  require  frequent  renewal,  - 
showed  no  human  interest,  spoke  no  human 
word.  And  Vroni  resented  this  deeply  if 
dumbly.  Not  even  the  good  and  gay  face  of  the 
Comtesse  Nelka  offered  compensation  for  the 
unmerited,  and  as  yet  uncomprehended  affront. 

"  Now,  Vroni,"  said  the  finely  scathing  voice, 
"  do  you  suppose  you  are  old  enough  to  get  on 
well  with  the  other  servants  ?  Some  of  them 
have  their  peculiarities,  no  doubt." 

"That 's  all  right.      I  have  mine." 

"I  must  explain,"  the  voice  continued,  but 
paused,  while  quite  a  different  one,  though 
from  the  same  larynx,  uttered  a  smooth  aside 
in  English:  "Nelka  dear,  I  really  wish  you  'd 
not  encourage  her  so.  Your  too  obvious  de 
light  in  her  pertness  only  makes  her  worse. 
She  has  no  idea  of  manners;  but  happily  one 
never  sees  her  kind  after  the  first." 

"I  think  her  manners  lovely — quite  too 
lovely." 


Heart's  Dearest  107 

"Vroni,  I  warn  you,  I  never  listen  to  com 
plaints.  Whoever  complains  goes.  It  is  a 
rule  of  the  house.  There  are  five  servants 
beside  yourself  and  the  coachman.  They  are 
rather  old,  and  set  in  their  ways ;  but  they 
have  been  with  me  long.  The  change  is 
always  with  the  cook.  Somehow,  of  late  I 
cannot  keep  one.  I  suppose  it  is  some  chicane, 
but  I  never  interfere.  Of  course  it  is  your 
duty  to  conciliate.  You  really  are  so  young," 
—  at  this  heavy  charge  the  voice  augmented 
its  asperity,  —  "  so  unusually  young,  for  so 
responsible  a  position,  I  think  it  looks  alto 
gether  very  unpromising,  in  spite  of  your 
references  from  Waldmohr.  They  are  excel 
lent,  I  do  not  deny.  But,  after  all,  one  never 
knows. " 

During  this  harangue,  Vroni  wisely  kept 
her  eyes  on  the  comtesse,  and  thereby  re 
vived  a  fair  amount  of  native  spirit. 

"I  'm  quick,"  the  girl  replied,  in  her  can 
did  way,  addressing  exclusively  the  one  she 
liked;  "but  I'm  pretty  good-hearted.  My 
bark  is  worse  than  my  bite.  They  need  not 
be  afraid  of  me,  no,  not  a  bit,  only  - 
straightening  herself,  in  unconscious  imita 
tion  of  her  illustrious  chief,  and  like  him 


io8  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

looking  about  an  instant,  with  battle-light  in 
her  eye  —  "I  stand  no  nonsense  when  I  'm 
doing  a  dinner."  Descending  to  ordinary 
human  levels,  she  said  reflectively:  "Five? 
There  were  nineteen  at  the  castle,  beside 
strangers.  Oh,  yes,  I  can  tackle  five  of 
them  ! ''  nodding  with  easy  confidence  at  Nelka. 

"Take  her  instantly,  mamma,  she's  deli 
cious,  and  let  her  make  a  lovely  bisque  this 
very  night.  It's  Eck's  favorite  soup." 

"Where  he  is  going,  he  '11  get  no  bisques." 

"All  the  more  reason  to  please  him  now, 
besides  —  " 

"Well?" 

Nelka  colored. 

"Nothing.  I've  forgotten.  I  mean  you 
would  not  like  it.  But —  '  she  hesitated. 

"Little  chatterer!"  said  the  mother,  with 
an  indulgence  that  blandly  waived  Eck  Flem- 
ming,  as  subject  of  serious  discussion,  com 
pletely  out  of  court.  Turning  to  Vroni,  she 
asked  languidly:  — 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  come  to  me,  my 
good  girl?  Who  sent  you  just  at  a  kitchen- 
crisis?  " 

"I  sent  myself,"  quoth  Vroni,  with  bright 
emphasis,  "  to  the  gracious  Comtesse  Nelka.  I 


Heart's  Dearest  109 

made  up  my  mind  long  ago,  I  wanted  to  work 
for  her.  It  was  the  first  time  I  saw  her.  She 
wore  a  pink  frock,  and  they  would  not  let  her 
jump  a  wee  little  hedge.  So  I  came  straight 
here." 

"I  thank  you,  Vroni, "  returned  the  young 
lady,  warmly.  "I  remember  —  and  it  is  sweet 
of  you." 

"And  if  there  'd  been  no  place  for  me,  I 
would  have  waited,"  the  girl  said,  speaking 
soft  like  her  father,  and  looking  at  Nelka  in  a 
way  that  touched  her,  it  was  so  full  of  frank 
and  glad  devotion.  "  It  was  the  Comtesse 
Nelka  I  wanted,  and  nobody  else.  Somehow 
I  had  to  come  here." 

When,  an  hour  later,  Vroni  reported  that 
she  was  engaged  at  the  Vallade's,  Melchior's 
elderly  wife  exclaimed  grudgingly:  — 

"  Some  do  have  the  devil's  own  luck  !  Good, 
steady,  sober,  experienced  women,  out  of  em 
ployment  on  all  sides;  and  little  whipper- 
snappers  bounce  down  from  the  hill-country, 
as  bold  as  ye  please,  and  wheedle  themselves 
into  notice  with  their  pert  tongues." 

"'Twas  their  own  tongues  that  wagged," 
stated  Vroni,  placid,  and  historically  accu 
rate.  " Kaudcnvclsch  mostly." 


iio  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"  It  is  a  fine  house,"  declared  Melchior,  with 
unction.  "  Their  coachman  belongs  to  my 
club  —  a  most  respectable  man.  They  are 
much  esteemed  at  Court.  Must  be  prudent, 
Vroni,  and  smooth-spoken." 

"  Every  bird  chirps  according  to  his  beak. 
Besides  it's  not  my  talk  they  hire." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  they  do  hire  !  " 
said  Jakobine,  sourly. 

"But  Vroni  has  good  references,"  hazarded 
Melchior;  "conduct  signed  by  the  Countess 
Waldmohr." 

"It's  a  good  deal  she  knows  of  my  con 
duct,"  Vroni  remarked  cheerfully.  "She 
hardly  saw  me.  If  she  signed,  't  was  the 
housekeeper  told  her  to." 

Melchior  looked  slightly  pained  by  the  in 
decorum  of  this  suggestion,  but,  ignoring  it, 
continued :  — 

"  Then  the  long  French  one  that  nobody 
can  read.  It  makes  a  fine  appearance." 

"  Appearance  !  "  sniffed  Jakobine. 

"Of  course  they  don't  really  amount  to 
much,"  he  hastened  to  concede. 

"No,  they  don't!"  Vroni  asserted  brightly. 
"  Just  what  I  say.  Bits  of  paper.  Who  cares 
for  them?  Still  the  lady  read  the  French 


Heart's  Dearest  in 

one,  and  screwed  up  her  face,  and  looked  at 
me  for  all  the  world  like  old  Blasius  buying 
a  cow. " 

"Vroni!"  groaned  her  brother.  "Dost 
think  that  is  the  way  to  find  favor  with  the 
great? " 

"Hast  no  modesty  at  all  and  no  fear?" 
demanded  Jakobine. 

"  Fear?  "  Vroni  repeated,  staring  with  raised 
eyebrows. 

"Yes,  fear,"  rejoined  the  woman,  impa 
tiently.  "  Of  not  suiting,  of  not  doing  things 
right,  of  not  knowing  how  to  behave,  since 
thou  hast  precious  little  experience,  and  less 
sense." 

"Truly,  I  had  not  thought  of  that,"  said 
the  young  girl,  slowly.  "  Besides,"  she  added, 
after  a  moment,  joyfully,  "seest,  Jakobine,  I 
know  a  lot." 

"Self-praise  goes  but  little  way,  eh,  Mel- 
chior?  " 

" 'T  is  as  thou  sayest, "  said  the  man,  but 
coughed  behind  his  hand  in  deprecation,  for 
somehow  he  felt  a  sneaking  delight  in  the 
coming  of  his  sister;  —  besides  her  prospects 
looked  promising. 

Jakobine  drove  him  with  tighter  curb  than 


H2  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

he  the  king's  grays.  Ten  years  his  senior, 
and  of  forbidding  countenance,  she  was  a 
paragon  of  respectability,  which  he  very  prop 
erly  deemed  more  precious  than  comeliness. 
By  wedding  the  daughter  of  a  head-coach 
man,  prudent  Melchior  had  secured  rapid 
advancement  in  his  chosen  career.  He  had 
married,  as  the  saying  is,  straight  into  the 
business.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  the  man 
inopportunely  died,  and  another  had  suc 
ceeded  with  his  own  progeny  to  consider. 

No,  Melchior  had  made  no  error  in  his  cal 
culations.  They  were  based  indeed  upon  the 
obvious  tactics  of  the  great  and  wise,  the 
world's  noblest  families,  princes  of  the  blood, 
potentates,  sovereigns  by  the  grace  of  God. 
Jakobine  had  brought  to  her  marriage  a  mod 
est  dowry,  considerable  worldly  ambition, 
shrewdness  in  practical  matters,  thrift,  dili 
gence,  and  inflexible  devotion  to  the  observ 
ances  of  the  Church.  Even  Sister  Corona 
and  Sebastian  had  strongly  commended  his 
choice.  He  had  gained  precisely  what  he 
sought,  and  what  he  prized  highest;  yet, 
though  he  dared  not  admit  it  plainly,  —  even 
to  himself  alone  in  the  dark,  — he  was  hope 
lessly  puzzled  to  discover  that  a  human  lot, 


Heart's  Dearest  nj 

exhaling  the  quintessence  of  respectability, 
could  sit  so  ghastly  heavy  on  a  man.  Some 
times  he  longed  for  the  Rough  Alp.  Often 
he  sadly  wished  he  had  a  child,  but  took  care 
not  to  say  it.  Unloving,  not  even  kind, 
Jakobine  owned  obtrusively,  as  property,  the 
man  whom  the  Holy  Church  had  given  her, 
and  was  morbidly  jealous  of  every  woman 
who  passed  him,  unseeing,  in  the  streets. 
He  squirmed  well  to  keep  the  peace.  His 
only  joys,  though  alloyed  with  deep  griev 
ances,  he  found  in  the  daily  pomps  of  his 
vocation.  Herein,  too,  he  resembled  not  a 
little  his  exalted  prototypes. 

Into  this  fatiguing  interior  had  suddenly 
burst  Vroni's  nonchalant  beauty,  her  auda 
cious  charm,  her  rather  insolent  good  luck. 
Jakobine,  from  the  moment  they  met,  could 
but  regard  her  with  sullen  resentment.  It 
was  only  yesterday  she  had  come.  Already 
the  older  woman's  grudge  was  deep-rooted  as 
a  family  feud. 

"Ye  look  little  enough  like  brother  and 
sister,"  she  now  remarked,  with  singular 
acerbity.  "'Twill  not  be  believed.  'Twill 
make  talk." 

The  two,  never  having  considered  this  phe- 
8 


ii4  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

nomenon,  began  to  scrutinize  each  other  at 
tentively,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  their 
lives.  Nothing  could  be  truer  than  Jako- 
bine's  reproach. 

"  Being  but  halves,"  suggested  Vroni,  study 
ing  Melchior's  smooth-shaved,  sandy,  and 
freckled  visage.  His  eyes  were  light  and  far- 
sighted,  his  expression  sanctimonious.  Con 
sciousness  of  close  connection  with  Throne 
and  State,  together  with  Jakobine's  unweary 
ing  whip,  and  his  tendency  to  enjoy  the 
gloomy  side  of  religion,  had  dropped  the  cor 
ners  of  his  mouth  in  sharp  furrows. 

Vroni  mustered  him  critically. 

"Hast  a  big  bare  mouth,  Melchior.  Art 
strange  to  me  so,  and  a  good  bit  uglier. 
Didst  use  to  deck  thy  upper  lip  with  flax." 

The  elder  brother,  not  ill-pleased  to  assume 
a  superior  and  didactic  tone  toward  one  who 
had  hitherto  treated  him  with  small  respect, 
replied  solemnly :  — 

"  No  bearded  man  would  be  employed  in 
any  fine  house,  Vroni,  —  let  alone  the  palace." 

"  'T  is  only  country  wenches  that  know  not 
that,"  said  Jakobine. 

"  Men  may  not  wear  their  own  hair  as  they 
like?" 


Heart's  Dearest  115 

"  'T  is  not  genteel." 

"  Atschgabelef"  cried  Vroni  —  an  altogether 
untranslatable  expression,  —  common,  inno 
cent,  juvenile,  and  conveying  frank  derision, 
which  was  precisely  what  she  felt.  Again 
she  inspected  him. 

"  Yet  at  Hexenfels  didst  laugh,  and  many 
a  time,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  her  own 
cogitations. 

"Hast  grown  a  tall  and  tidy  maid,"  he 
rejoined  kindly,  for  her  brilliant  brownness 
pleased  him  well,  in  spite  of  himself,  and 
though  he  knew  it  to  be  but  dross. 

"  Nice  modest  girls  without  looks  get  on 
better  in  the  town,"  warned  Jakobine,  grimly. 

"  Thou,  Melchior,  were  I  a  man,  and  did  I 
drive  four  splendid  horses  stepping  proudly  —  " 

"  I  can  drive  six  —  eight  —  more  —  as  many 
as  any  man,"  he  broke  in,  one  quick  and 
youthful  gleam  of  honest  pride  lighting  his 
staid  features. 

"Surely!"  she  cried,  nodding  in  delighted 
sympathy.  "Well,  then,  I'd  hold  my  head 
up  high  as  a  king,  seest,  Melchior,  and  I  'd 
crack  my  whip  at  all  creation,  and  I  'd  laugh 
and  sing,  and  blow  my  horn,  and  come  sweep 
ing  through  green  woods,  the  sunshine  on  my 


n6  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

cheek;  and  when  I  sat  down  to  stretch  my 
long  boots  and  take  my  beer,  half-a-dozen 
tidy  maids  should  run  to  wait  on  me,  and  I  'd 
have  a  merry  word  for  each  and  all.  That  's 
what  I  'd  do,  Melchior!" 

With  a  gasp  of  pious  consternation,  he 
turned  to  his  wife. 

"  She  means  a  — postillion  !  "  ejaculated  the 
shocked  king's  coachman. 

"  I  mean  a  whole  man,"  said  Vroni,  merrily. 
"  I  spied  him  when  I  went  to  the  Fair." 

"Hast  spied  many  such,  I  make  no  doubt," 
flung  in  Jakobine,  inexplicably  incensed  and 
with  fathomless  suspicion. 

"  ATa  —  that  thou  knowst  no  difference 
'twixt  high  and  low!"  exclaimed  Melchior, 
aghast  before  so  deplorable  ignorance.  "  Why. 
if  any  of  us  acted  that  disgraceful,  or  half  so 
common-like,  and  let-out  in  our  manners,  we'd 
lose  our  position  without  warning,  and  serve 
us  right.  'Tis  not  easy  to  keep  it  at  best," 
he  continued,  diverging  into  gloom ;  "  what 
with  the  rivalry  and  favoritism,  and  the  pres 
sure  from  above,  and  the  pushing  from  below. 
For  some  of  those  new  chaps  are  starting 
up  like  mushrooms,  and  Heaven  alone  knows 
where  they  '11  stop,  and  whom  they  '11  oust,  - 


Heart's  Dearest  117 

the  head-coachman  being  a  most  uncertain 
man,  —  times  having  changed  for  the  worse, 
Jakobine. "  She  acknowledged  with  a  series 
of  austerely  recapitulating  nods  this  pious 
tribute  to  her  father's  shade. 

"Yes,  'tis  even  so,  so  isfs.  But  thou, 
Vroni,  knowst  naught  of  Court  life." 

"  Nay,  nor  would  I,  if  it  taketh  the  marrow 
out  of  a  man,  and  setteth  him  a-whining. " 

"  Seest,  Vroni,  at  Court  there  be  under 
ground  ways  to  all  things.  Steady  must  a 
man  go,  as  on  the  tight-rope.  Wise  as  the 
serpent,  harmless  as  the  dove.  Careful  to 
offend  no  soul;  friendly  with  all,  trusting 
none,  and  to  the  great,  most  humble." 

"Ha,  it  must  suit  thee  well!"  she  said 
dryly;  "couldst  ever  nimbly  duck  to  right 
or  left." 

"Truly,  'twould  wonder  thee  much,  Vroni, 
didst  know  what  I  know,"  he  insisted  sepul- 
chrally. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  shrewd  and  faintly 
ironical  smile. 

" Ei,  ei,  Melchior,  art  grown  so  wise?" 

"Hast  no  notion  of  our  instructions,"  he 
went  on  with  mournful  complacency,  "  of  the 
loads  we  must  remember!  'T  is  a  sore  burden 


ii8  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

to  the  mind.  Seest,  Vroni,  wouldst  never  of 
thyself  think  it.  'T  is  they  that  look  most 
English,  get  promoted  fastest.  'T  is  the  Ber 
lin  way.  His  Majesty  is  most  particular. 
But  the  Queen,  — •  O  Wch  !  I  had  the  honor  to 
drive  her  Majesty  out  yesterday.  Time  was, 
I  did  drive  the  royalties  out  every  day,  but  of 
late  I  be  so  much  neglected,  I  fear  my  grays 
will  take  on  flesh,  howe'er  I  keep  them  gently 
moving  by  myself.  A  great  thing,  Vroni,  to 
drive  her  Majesty,  but  't  is  awful  on  the 
nerves.  Not  for  thy  life  must  thou  sneeze; 
and  if  a  fly  tickles  thy  nose,  thou  must  needs 
let  him  tickle  as  though  thou  wert  a  man  of 
wood  not  flesh.  The  word  's  gone  forth :  Eng 
lish,  every  inch  —  though  the  sky  falls." 

"English?  How  English?  What 's  Eng 
lish?" 

Puffing  with  vanity  beneath  his  lamenta 
tions,  Melchior  suddenly  accentuated  him 
self —  intensified  beyond  belief  his  habitual 
demeanor. 

Incredibly  solemn,  rigid,  impassable,  ex 
pressionless,  a  human  automaton,  he  sat 
straight  as  a  rod,  his  wrists  in  position,  and 
gazed,  as  it  were,  between  his  leader's  ears. 

"O    Melchior,    O    Melchior,    dost    call    it 


Heart's  Dearest  119 

English?"  laughed  Vroni,  in  wild  mirth. 
"Truly,  'tis  like  a  sheep.  Wast  ever  some 
what  like  a  sheep,  seest,  Melchior!  So  now 
canst  make  a  rare  good  mutton-head  to  please 
the  king." 

"It  is  the  way  approved  at  Court,"  he 
rejoined,  severely. 

Standing  before  him  in  the  well-scoured 
place  of  torment  he  called  his  home,  the 
young  girl  regarded  him  long,  her  merriment 
gradually  merging  into  grave  inquiry,  her 
carelessness  followed  by  coolly  intelligent 
reflection.  It  was  her  first  day  in  a  large 
town.  A  whirl  of  novel  scenes  had  opened 
before  her  rustic  mind,  a  multitude  of  vaguely 
unappetizing  impressions  had  been  roused  no 
less  by  the  lady  of  high  and  mighty  degree 
than  by  the  cringing  charioteer,  and  Jako- 
bine's  presence  was  distinctly  grisly.  Far 
off,  in  clear  contrast,  she  beheld  a  simple 
figure,  and  her  thoughtful  gaze  still  on  her 
brother,  she  said  gently :  — 

"Of  all  ways,  the  way  that  in  all  things 
pleases  me — 'tis  my  father's  way." 


no  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 


VI 


VRONI  had  run  bareheaded  in  summer  sun 
and  winter  blasts.  This  was  the  fashion  in 
Hexenfels.  There,  girls  never  wore  hats,— 
even  to  church,  —  thereby  saving  much  ex 
pense,  perplexity  of  choice,  and  the  chagrin 
of  finding  one's  apex  overtopped  by  one's 
neighbor's.  So  far  as  can  be  ascertained, 
these  hatless  maids  rejoiced  in  an  immunity 
from  colds  unknown  to  those  protected  from 
the  inclemency  of  the  weather  by  the  most 
fashionable  bonnets.  Now  a  bit  of  white 
cap  perched  on  her  shining  braids  compactly 
reefed ;  she  wore  a  very  long  and  resplendent 
white  apron ;  and  every  other  morning,  when 
she  went  to  market  carried  a  big  brown  basket 
on  her  arm. 

She  walked  well,  far  better,  for  instance,  than 
Nelka  von  Vallade,  who  lacked  the  advantages 
ofVroni's  early  training  in  carrying  heavy  things 
on  the  head  up  and  down  goat  paths.  Erect, 
free,  unconcerned,  she  passed  swiftly  through 


Heart's  Dearest  121 

busy  streets  where  people  turned  to  look 
at  her,  she  was  so  fresh  and  charming  a 
picture.  They  too  thought  her  —  whatever 
their  urban  rendition  of  the  rustic  phrase  — 
a  tidy  maid.  But  not  her  rich  coloring, 
not  her  lithe  and  spirited  step,  transformed 
careless  glances  into  surprised  scrutiny  so 
much  as  her  atmosphere, —  a  certain  radiant 
audacity  of  health  and  gladness,  and  her 
young  smile  as  she  walked  among  strangers,— 
a  vague,  sweet,  fearless  smile,  which  her 
heart  flung  abroad  in  blithe  greeting  to 
the  whole  great  world. 

No  wonder  she  smiled.  She  was  consciously 
rejoicing  in  her  strength  and  freedom.  She 
had  never  imagined  anything  so  entertaining 
as  town  life.  In  Hexenfels,  one  week  was 
like  another;  Waldmohr  was  pleasant  and 
lively,  but  she  was  serving  a  close  appren 
ticeship  ;  here  each  day,  each  hour,  brought 
fresh  delights.  Moreover,  till  now,  she  had 
been  under  nominal  tutelage.  Her  mother's 
habitual  chiding,  her  father's  anxious  watch 
fulness,  and  at  the  castle  Armand  Gireaud's 
puissant  guardianship  had  never  failed.  Now 
she  was  her  own  mistress,  and  gloried  in  it. 
Every  restraining  voice  had  ceased.  Melchior, 


122  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

it  is  true,  and  more  especially  Jakobine,  at  the 
mere  sight  of  the  girl's  buoyancy,  were  prone 
to  strike  Cassandra-notes ;  but  she  saw  her 
brother  far  less  frequently  than  Dionysius 
the  weaver  fondly  imagined  in  his  wistful 
pictures  of  her.  On  her  fortnightly  free 
Sunday  she  joined  them  for  their  walk  and 
glass  of  beer  in  some  wayside  inn,  and 
hardly  heeded  that  Jakobine  was  repellent 
and  Melchior  henpecked,  so  enchanting  were 
the  songs,  the  laughter,  and  the  friendliness 
of  happy  faces. 

Vroni  in  her  plebeian  circles  could  not  help 
now  and  then  hearing  comments  upon  her 
beauty.  No  more  could  Nelka  von  Valladc 
upon  hers  in  the  best  society.  Vroni  was 
beginning  to  comprehend  that  she  was  per 
sonally  pleasing.  Nelka,  in  her  own  case,  had 
been  aware  of  a  similarly  palatable  truth  all 
her  life  —  yet  bore  herself  with  a  frank  and 
simple  spirit.  Vroni  too  passed  among 
men's  blatantly  admiring  stares,  —  for  which 
Jakobine  sternly  reprimanded  her,  instead 
of  them,  —  and  was,  a  little,  indeed,  but  not 
much,  less  unconscious  than  when  she  used 
to  run  wild  in  the  mountains  —  immuring  old 
shrews  and  setting  walnut-trees  ablaze.  In  her 


Heart's  Dearest  123 

heart  dwelt  as  yet  no  thought  that  could  sorely 
grieve  her  angel,  or  Dionysius  the  weaver,  — • 
their  standard  for  her  being  perhaps  pretty 
much  the  same  thing. 

Father  and  daughter,  loving  each  other  ar 
dently,  wrote  inarticulate  little  letters,  as  was 
the  fashion  in  Hexenfels.  They  always  took 
their  pens  in  hand  to  pen  a  few  lines  to  say 
they  were  in  good  health  and  hoped  the  other 
was  the  same,  after  which,  with  fresh  impetus, 
they  stated  succinctly  that  they,  Gottlob  !  en 
joyed  up  to  date  very  good  health.  Dionysius 
then  penned  his  duty  to  her  gracious  master 
and  mistress,  and  commended  himself  to  them, 
-under  the  innocent  impression  that  they 
must  occasionally  condescend  to  some  sort  of 
human  intercourse  with  his  dear  child, —  and 
he  hoped  they  and  all  their  gracious  family 
were  enjoying  very  good  health.  Further,  he 
hoped  Melchior  and  his  dear  Frau  Jakobine 
were  enjoying  very  good  health.  Vroni,  in  her 
turn,  expressed  equally  explicit  solicitude  as 
to  each  and  all  of  her  relatives  in  the  village. 
They  began  rather  low  down  on  a  small  sheet 
of  paper  with  lines  well  apart,  and  by  the  time 
they  had  penned  all  their  obligatory  hygienic 
preliminaries,  their  fingers  felt  cramped  from 


124  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

the  unwonted  exercise,  their  brains  dull,  and 
never  by  any  accident  did  they  say  what  they 
really  meant.  That  letters  eventually  might 
serve  as  means  toward  this  end,  they  seemed 
not  to  suspect. 

Coptic  cannot  better  screen  secrets  than  did 
their  bald  missives.  Agathe's  indeed  were  in 
a  certain  sense  a  success,  for  she  wrote  sim 
ply  and  solely  to  chronicle  felicitous  domes 
tic  events  among  her  four-footed  friends,  and 
achieved  what  she  undertook.  But  Vroni,  liv 
ing  in  what  seemed  to  her  one  endless  round 
of  delight,  wishing  always  he  were  near  to 
share  her  joy,  loving  him  truly,  though  so  glad 
at  heart,  said  naught  of  all  this,  and  remarked 
staidly  every  week,  "  Town  pleases  me  fairly 
well,"  —  the  set  phrase  being  what  she  had 
learned  to  pen.  Dionysius,  wasting  away  phy 
sically,  eating  his  heart  out  with  longing  and 
brooding  tenderness,  transmuting  his  failing 
life-forces  into  one  incessant  benediction,  never 
varied  his  academic  treatise  upon  everybody's 
physical  condition.  His  great  love  and  pain 
were  dumb,  except  for  three  poor  words  that 
crept  in  after  the  penning  was  all  done,  and 
huddled  themselves  shyly  in  some  corner : 
St'i  brav,  Madcl,  and  that  homely,  "  Be  good, 


Heart's  Dearest  125 

little  girl,"  had  for  her  small  significance,  at 
least  no  thrilling  undertone. 

It  was  doubtless  presumptuous  for  a  person 
in  Vroni's  station  to  be  so  inordinately  happy. 
She  was  by  far  the  happiest  creature  in  the 
Vallade  house,  possibly  in  the  whole  town. 
She  thoroughly  liked  her  work,  and  the  new 
sense  of  power  it  gave  her.  In  every  respect 
she  proceeded  with  marvellous  fidelity  upon 
Armand  Gireaud's  lines,  was  a  credit  to  his 
methods  and  his  perspicuity,  and  brought  to 
her  daily  tasks  sufficient  temperament  and  vital' 
ity  to  equip  half-a-dozen  average  women.  She 
was  exceedingly  busy,  but  she  had  never  been 
anything  else.  Her  Plerrschaft  made  large  de 
mands  upon  her  resources,  it  being  the  dinner- 
season  ;  she  was  equal  to  them ;  she  met  them 
with  the  composure  of  an  old  campaigner.  She 
possessed  indeed  a  secret  source  of  strength,  her 
book,  annotated  and  filled  out  by  the  Master's 
hand. 

She  was  continually  discovering  new  charges, 
warnings,  appeals,  and  hints,  as  if  he  had  fore 
seen  every  imaginable  predicament.  Then  the 
innumerable  menus  he  had  "  composed  "  for  her. 
Lunch  for  ten  ladies  —  young.  Ditto  for  ditto, 
—  mature.  (Gircaud  had  to  be  very  angry  be- 


126  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

fore  he  would  perceive  that  women  could  grow 
old.)  Dinners  of  all  sizes  and  nuances,  poetic, 
aesthetic,  aldermanic,  for  the  clergy,  the  Jiantc 
finance,  the  army,  artists,  statesmen,  royalties, 
and  every  sort  of  mixed  company  conceivable 
in  polite  circles. 

Once  Count  Benno  sent  out  from  the  dining- 
room  to  know  if  she  could  get  him  up  a  game 
supper  for  eight  men,  cold  but  "pyramidal" 
good,  —  the  adjectives  refer  to  the  supper,  by 
no  means  to  the  men,  —  and  have  it  at  his 
rooms  in  a  garrison  town  near  by,  by  eleven 
o'clock  on  the  following  night.  She  said  she 
could.  Her  chef  had  instructed  her  always  to 
say  she  could,  whatever  was  required.  That 
night  she  was  considering  the  special  nature  of 
Count  Benno's  demand,  and  turned  the  pages  of 
her  book,  thinking  to  make  some  careful  com 
bination  ;  when,  suddenly,  she  came  upon  the 
very  thing  she  wanted  :  "  Choice  Late  Supper 
for  Young  Men  —  Lively''  It  was  there  — 
even  to  the  wines.  It  seemed  like  magic. 
Count  Benno  said  the  feast  was  "colossal." 

Vroni  promptly  proved  a  match  for  her 
elderly  colleagues,  and  imbued  them  with  the 
healthful  notion  that  she  would  do  them  no 
harm,  provided  they  would  behave  themselves. 


Heart's  Dearest  127 

Her  views  succeeded  by  force  of  their  origi 
nality,  their  singleness  of  aim,  and  her  pecu 
liarly  lucid  mode  of  exposition.  Hitherto,  a 
solid  phalanx  had  routed  every  cook.  This 
cook  routed  the  phalanx.  Former  cooks  had 
sought  to  ingratiate  themselves  with  the  august 
body,  failed,  lost  their  tempers  under  impos 
sible  demands  and  incessant  badgering,  com 
plained,  appealed  to  supreme  authority  ;  hence 
moved  on. 

It  was  a  merry  little  game.  The  butler  and 
the  Swiss  maid  had  a  stiff  bet  on  Vroni's  exit. 
With  the  youthful  rustic,  the  worthies  thought 
to  have  easy  scoring.  She,  little  used  to  im 
pudence —  except  her  own — and  not  at  all 
to  petty  tyranny,  stared  at  them  in  surprise 
the  first  day,  on  the  second  frowned  and 
watched  them  warily,  and  on  the  third,  without 
subtlety  or  exhortation,  without  suspecting 
that  she  was  an  able  tactician,  simply  starved 
out  the  garrison.  Having  provided  nothing 
for  the  servants'  table,  she  locked  her  larder, 
put  her  keys  in  her  pocket,  and  went  to  bed. 
It  was  a  song  without  words.  Were  there 
curses  in  response,  she  heard  them  not. 

On  the  following  day,  they,  one  and  all, 
wished  her  a  civil  good-morning  and  eyed  her 


n8  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

furtively  to  discover  her  mood.  She  revealed 
it  uncompromisingly.  Turning  toward  them, 
her  arms  akimbo,  —  visibly  possessing  her 
domain  and  measuring  them  with  dauntless 
eyes,  —  she  spoke  ruggedly,  like  Agathc,  and 
though  tolerably  used  now  to  the  more  formal 
"you,"  relapsed,  as  always  in  vital  moments, 
into  her  familiar  dialect :  - 

"Ye  townfolk!  I  la!  Where  I  stand  'tis 
my  kitchen  !  Mark  ye  this.  'T  is  once  for  all 
I  speak.  Saprelotte!" 

Whereupon  she  gave  them  an  excellent 
breakfast.  They  found  her  a  generous  and 
gallant  conqueror,  and  as  they  knew  her 
better,  most  benevolent  for  her  years ;  always 
ready  to  take  trouble  to  gratify  any  little  taste 
of  'theirs,  not  merely  in  her  special  province, 
but  willing  to  do  a  good  bit  of  sewing  for  one, 
an  errand  on  her  way  from  market,  or  any 
service  in  her  power;  even  capable  of  a  volun 
tary  and  cordial  relinquishment  of  her  precious 
Sunday  outing  in  favor  of  a  maid  with  an  ill 
mother,  or  a  sweetheart  sailing,  or  some  other 
real  or  alleged  cause  for  irregular  absence. 
But  they  discovered  also  that  Vroni  was  two 
distinct  personalities:  as  young  girl,  sunny, 
kindly,  if  rough  and  ready  of  tongue,  hot, 


Heart's  Dearest  129 

but  sweet-tempered,  —  for  tempers  may  be 
that,  as  well  as  cold  and  sour,  —  easy,  unexact- 
ing,  in  short  what  they  called  a  good  fellow; 
but  as  head  of  her  department  most  inexorably 
masterful. 

She  seemed  to  have  framed  for  her  private 
guidance  a  species  of  Code  Napoleon,  or,  since 
unwritten,  Brehon  Laws,  perhaps,  which  she 
never  discussed.  But  they  learned  to  compre 
hend.  For  the  instant  one  of  them  trans 
gressed  the  smallest  of  her  unannounced  but 
inflexible  precepts,  by  a  hair's-breadth,  in 
fringed  upon  what  she,  from  a  professional 
point  of  view,  regarded  as  her  liberty  of  ac 
tion,  —  her  official  dignity,  —  or  offended  her 
sense  of  justice,  the  entire  group  was  con 
demned  to  suffer  the  pangs  of  hunger,  —  the 
innocent  with  the  guilty.  Each,  therefore, 
was  incited  to  do  constable  service,  and  keep 
his  neighbor  in  order,  those  with  the  heartiest 
appetites  working  most  strenuously;  and  peace 
reigned  as  never  before  within  those  precincts. 
Vroni  neither  pondered  her  course  nor  recalled 
it  with  elation.  She  simply  and  instinctively 
promoted  the  survival  of  the  fittest  —  herself. 
Her  procedure  was  probably  but  a  reflex  ac 
tion  of  which  the  motor  should  be  sought  in 
9 


130  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

ancient  days,  when  Agathc  implanted  in  her 
little  erring  daughter's  mind  the  imperative 
association  between  naughtiness  and  a  yearn 
ing  stomach. 

Vroni  had,  in  her  own  sphere,  business 
enough  richly  to  sustain  her  own  inquiry; 
moreover,  curiosity  as  to  the  affairs  of  others 
lay  not  in  her  disposition.  But  the  myriad 
facts,  fables,  and  inferences  incessantly  filter 
ing  down  from  high  sources  through  the  serv 
ing  substratum  reached  her  consciousness  and 
were  passively  absorbed.  Old  family  servants 
command  their  own  sort  of  Rontgen-ray.  Piti 
fully  bare  and  quivering  the  Vallade  family 
heart  lay  before  the  trained  stolidity  of  those 
grave  men  in  livery,  mute  and  decorous  as  the 
tall  carved  chair-backs  behind  which  they 
effaced  themselves,  the  massive  sideboard  about 
which  they  noiselessly  hovered;  and  the  deft 
still  maid,  brushing  her  lady's  hair  night  after 
night,  read  as  an  open  book  the  tired  worldly 
thoughts  revolving  in  their  vicious  circle. 

With  some  yet  not  over-abundant  malice, 
with  benevolence  varying  according  to  purely 
subjective  conditions,  certainly  with  not  a  whit 
less  charity  than  my  lady  herself  employed  in 
doing  what  she  euphemistically  called  "  talk- 


Heart's  Dearest  131 

ing  over"  her  friends,  the  employed,  en  petit 
comit^,  minutely  and  often  discussed  their  em 
ployers,  their  foibles  and  idiosyncrasies,  their 
aims,  struggles,  and  chagrins,  and,  with  un 
flinching  correctness,  their  inadequate  budget. 
Thus  higher  education  reached  Vroni  by  her 
ears. 

Her  eyes,  too,  were  not  idle.  In  her  pleasant 
and  commodious  realm,  she  was  stationed  as 
it  were  between  two  worlds,  and  serenely  aloof 
from  both.  On  the  one  side,  she  looked  over 
a  spacious  garden  slope  upon  the  backs  of 
towering  buildings  in  a  busy  street.  Across 
the  space,  between  two  houses,  men  and  women 
of  the  work-a-day  world  tramped  with  their 
burdens.  Nearest  her  was  a  piano  manufac 
tory.  Through  many  tiers  of  windows  men 
were  visible  at  benches  and  tables,  —  men 
seated,  standing,  moving,  shaping,  fashioning, 
hammering.  It  seemed  good,  clean  work,  and 
cheerful.  Beyond  was  a  tricot  factory,  a  dingy 
place.  At  certain  hours  a  file  of  rough  women 
streamed  in  and  out.  She  could  perceive  their 
crowded  rows  of  heads  in  their  treadmill.  It 
looked  to  her  like  a  prison,  —  and  stuffy, 
coughy  work  she  was  sure. 

In  that  street,  early  on  rainy  mornings,  hum- 


132  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

ble  women  passed,  overladen, —  a  basket  on 
the  head,  heavy  parcels  under  the  arms,  and 
sometimes  struggling  also  with  a  dislocated 
umbrella, — while  long  wet  calico  skirts  wob 
bled  about  their  ankles  and  solicited  rheuma 
tism  ;  men  similarly  weighted  strode  by  with 
comparative  ease.  In  Vroni's  church,  of  which 
she  could  see  the  spire,  they  told  her  every 
back  was  fitted  to  its  burden.  Truly  the  trous 
ers  might  be,  likewise,  she  reflected.  "  It  were 
no  sin,  for  Comtesse  Nelka  wears  such  on  her 
wheel.  But  did  a  poor  woman  dare  —  na,  na  !  " 
But  to  such  things  she  gave  but  a  quick 
careless  glance  when  her  duties  happened  to 
call  her  in  that  direction  to  set  something  away 
to  cool  in  the  store-room,  or  sunning  on  the 
kitchen  veranda.  The  veranda  suited  her 
vastly,  for  it  was  high  and  looked  toward  dis 
tant  hills  and  free  skies.  She  pranced  out  for 
an  instant  often.  Sometimes  she  spied  other 
white-capped  cooks  on  their  verandas,  and 
smiled  with  gratified  ambition  because  none 
was  so  young  as  she,  then  smiled  again  in  a 
better  way,  with  a  good  thought  of  Gireaud. 
Many  of  these  impressions  were  as  swift  and 
light  as  her  whisking  of  eggs.  She  had  in 
truth  more  important  business  than  to  stare  at 


Heart's  Dearest  133 

her  neighb.ors  or  waste  much  thought  upon 
them. 

Far  up  the  work-a-day  street,  where  it  wound 
toward  suburbs  out  of  sight  was  a  common 
from  whence  the  monotonous  strains  of  a 
carrousel  sometimes  proceeded.  She  had  seen 
the  thing  on  a  Sunday,  its  painted  cars  with 
horses'  heads  always  going  round  and  round 
and  never  arriving.  There  stood  too  a  great 
building  used  for  circuses  and  various  sorts 
of  meetings.  Late  at  night,  long  after  she  was 
in  bed,  she  had  once  in  the  still  air  heard  the 
dull  irregular  patter  of  many  feet  approaching 
along  the  lower  road  and  a  group  of  men  and 
women  marching  and  singing  vehemently.  By 
the  time  they  reached  the  piano  manufactory 
she  could  distinguish  the  words  of  the  oft-re 
peated  refrain :  — 

"It  grows  and  blooms  for  human  bliss, 
The  Red  Republic  !  " 

but  what  manner  of  thing  that  was  she  had 
no  notion,  or  why  after  human  bliss  the  song 
came  to  a  violent  end  with  a  sound  of  scuffling, 

O' 

hoarse  altercation,  and  a  couple  of  shrill  in 
sistent  whistles.  Her  day's  work  was  done, 
her  market  book  in  order,  her  conscience 


134  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

tranquil,  so  she  turned  over  and  fell  sound 
asleep. 

In  the  opposite  direction  was  what  she  called 
the  play-day  world. 

Now  that  the  threat  trees  which  should  dis 
creetly  veil  her  domain  were  leafless,  she  could 
see  across  the  court  a  short  section  of  the 
aristocratic  street,  unmolested  by  traffic,  un 
sullied  by  the  passage  of  heavy  vans,  trucks, 
or  any  vehicle  remotely  suggestive  of  sweat 
of  brows,  horny  hands  of  toil,  or  anything  trite 
and  repugnant.  Smart  carriages  were  con 
tinually  dashing  across  this  field  of  vision.  So 
many,  many  carriages,  shining  like  her  copper 
saucepans  and  silver  platters,  going  on  and  on 
like  the  carrousel-carls,  and  seeming  never  to 
arrive,  for  she  could  not  see  them  turn  into 
the  little  drive  that  led  to  the  Vallade  portals 
or  stop  at  other  doors. 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  but  mostly  ladies, 
hour  after  hour,  day  after  day,  week  after 
week,  year  after  year,  paying  calls,  and  always 
so  awfully  glad  to  see  one  another.  Sapristi  ! 
Always  two  men  on  the  box,  dark  green  men 
or  brown  or  blue  or  whitish,  mostly  young 
and  foolish-looking,  quite  like  Hans,  Seppl, 
and  Michel  —  and  always  one  high  on  a  cushion, 


Heart's  Dearest  135 

terribly  English,  like  Melchior,  and  the  other 
with  folded  arms  and  his  nose  in  the  air,  as  if 
he  had  finished  all  his  work  for  one  life  at 
least. 

Occasionally  Melchior  himself  drove  past,  ex 
ercising  the  royal  grays.  The  servants  always 
ran  to  tell  her  he  was  coming,  that  she  might 
station  herself  in  time.  They  felt  huge  exal 
tation  in  gazing  at  the  cushions  upon  which 
a  monarch  sometimes  sat,  were  flattered  by 
the  subtle  approach  of  that  sacred  upholstery 
to  themselves  through  Vroni  and  her  eminent 
brother,  and  always  expected  her  to  evince 
some  reasonable  pride  in  him.  But  she  was 
an  odd  stick.  If  engaged  in  intricate  work 
which  she  thought  ought  not  to  be  dropped, 
hardly  thanking  them  for  their  rush  and  flurry, 
she  flatly  refused  to  stir,  "  Not  for  a  regi 
ment  of  king's  horses  and  brothers  to  boot," 
and  "  that  haughty  "  was  instantly  telegraphed 
through  the  mansion.  When,  however,  she 
deemed  it  compatible  with  higher  schemes, 
she  deigned  to  occupy  a  pantry  window  of 
observation  and  await  the  pageant. 

Conscious  of  rectitude  and  many  eyes  upon 
him,  Melchior  always  came  on  slowly  and  held 
himself  superb  as  a  candlestick.  As  he  passed 


136  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

the  pantry,  he  permitted  the  merest  ghost  of 
a  grin  to  distort  one  side  of  his  face,  which 
lent  him  a  somewhat  paralytic  charm.  Al 
though  Vroni  laughed,  and  frowned,  and  mut 
tered  disdainfully:  Ack,  was!  Englisck !  and 
gave  the  plump  chicken  or  whatever  she  had 
on  hand  a  good  slap,  she  rather  liked  to  look 
across  the  court  and  see  him  majestically  tra 
verse  that  short  section  of  road.  English  or 
no  English,  he  was  her  brother  and  a  bit  of 
home.  As  for  Melchior,  it  became  one  of  the 
few  joys  of  his  impeccable  but  sombre  exis 
tence  ;  and  as  he  took  care  not  to  mention  it 
to  Jakobine,  it  possessed  for  him  an  almost 
clandestine  fascination. 

But  the  magnet  that  drew  Vroni  quickest  to 
some  convenient  observatory  was  Comtesse 
Nelka,  in  whatever  garb  that  winning  damsel 
sallied  forth,  and  whether  driving  or  on  foot, 
whether  indeed  all  that  Vroni  could  discern 
of  her  were  her  carriage  lights  as  she  whirled 
off  to  a  dinner  or  ball.  She,  too,  was  always 
like  the  carrousel,  going  and  going,  paying 
calls  incessantly,  breathlessly  busy  and  nearly 
always  out  in  the  evenings. 

Vroni  eagerly  caught  even  the  most  fleet 
ing  and  remote  glimpse  of  the  radiant  creature 


Heart's  Dearest  137 

whom  face  to  face  she  rarely  saw.  But  the 
little  comtesse  always  stopped  and  had  a  good 
word  to  say  wherever  they  might  meet,  were 
it  in  the  street  and  Vroni  with  her  market 
basket.  Whatever  was  of  consummate  excel 
lence  and  delicacy  in  Vroni's  achievements, 
she  secretly  dedicated  to  Comtesse  Nelka, 
and  with  a  sort  of  happy  boyishness  —  like 
the  allegiance  of  some  stanch  little  page  for 
his  sovereign  lady  —  served  her  ever  zealously, 
not  repining  that  her  gracious  presence  was 
so  rare  a  boon,  —  content  in  perfect  service. 


138  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 


VII 


TlIE  debate  had  been  long,  heated,  and 
neither  to  Government  nor  Opposition  encour 
aging  or  satisfactory.  This  untoward  event 
may  sometimes  occur  in  the  best  whipped 
House  of  Parliament,  and  no  less  in  a  family 
of  unimpeachable  social  distinction  where  the 
Fifth  Commandment  is  forced  under  glass  to 
abnormal  dimensions. 

The  Opposition's  checks  were  very  pink,  it 
had  ruffled  its  pretty  hair,  its  mouth  was  set 
and  in  its  prolonged  study  of  its  bronze  shoes 
was  no  sign  of  submission.  The  Government 
looked  ominous. 

Yet  upon  the  whole,  the  Countess  von 
Vallade  deemed  it  imprudent  to  insist  farther 
at  the  moment.  Nothing  permanent  could  be 
done,  she  was  well  aware,  until  Eck  Flemming 
was  gone.  His  temporary  absence  was  well, 
but  only  his  final  departure  from  the  country 
could  render  Nclka  pliable.  It  was  best  with 
out  many  words  to  let  things  proceed  little  by 
little  and  close  up  round  her  until  she  was 


Heart's  Dearest  139 

too  involved  and  confused  to  extricate  herself. 
That  had  been  the  countess's  opinion  from 
the  first,  and  she  had  not  hesitated  to  urge  it ; 
but  Baron  Frege  unwisely  insisted  upon  too 
frequent  soundings.  The  man  was  impatient. 
Well  —  his  age  hardly  warranted  prolonged 
delay.  He  wanted  Nelka  —  yes,  undoubtedly; 
but  —  it  was  policy  to  scan  the  whole  field  — 
there  were  other  candidates  and  enough  of 
them,  and  whom  his  suave  sister  really  favored 
was  by  no  means  clear. 

Then  Nelka' s  pointed  indifference  might  any 
moment  offend  him  beyond  reparation.  Her 
manner  to  him  was  becoming  really  quite  abom 
inable.  Up  to  this  time  she  had  seemed  mar 
vellously  unconcerned  or  incredulous  —  at  any 
rate  indisposed  to  regard  the  matter  seriously. 
To-day,  and  in  a  less  degree  more  than  once 
recently,  she  had  been  roused,  indignant,  stub 
born, —  to  call  things  by  their  names.  The 
lady  feared,  indeed,  she  had  but  strengthened 
by  repeated  exercise  her  daughter's  power  of 
resistance. 

There  sat  Nelka  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
unmalleable,  unfilial.  She  had  just  remarked, 
in  the  clearest  possible  tone,  that  Baron  von 
Frcge  was  a  painted  mummy,  that  she  loathed 


140  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

him,  and  that  any  suggestion  of  her  marrying 
him  was  simply  crazy.  There  in  the  secret- 
drawer  lay  Frcge's  letter.  There  too  was 
Benno's  last — a  fateful  juxtaposition  in  truth! 
Benno  was  truly  outrageous ;  Knod  hardly 
better;  and  even  VValdemar  seemed  to  be  some 
what  beyond  his  depth.  Poor  boys !  They 
ought  of  course  to  have  all  they  wanted.  It 
was  too  absurd  they  ever  should  feel  cramped. 
Still  they  might  be  a  little  more  considerate  of 
their  own  family.  And  Eck  —  why  had  he 
not  Fregc's  money?  For  Eck  was  charming. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  of  that.  The  last 
time  he  had  spoken  earnestly  with  her,  he  was 
so  manly,  so  persuasive,  so  reasonable  in  his 
preposterous  schemes,  even  she  for  a  moment 
almost  sailed  blissfully  out  of  sight  of  stern 
reality,  and  barely  retained  sufficient  presence 
of  mind  to  arrange  that  at  least  while  his 
appointment  was  pending  he  should  say  noth 
ing  definite  to  Nelka ;  and  he  had  not  spoken, 
nor  had  he  written,  of  that  the  countess  had 
reason  to  be  perfectly  sure.  So  they  had 
parted  the  best  of  friends,  which  was  a  real 
comfort,  for  she  was  hardly  less  fond  of  him 
than  of  her  own  sons,  and  none  could  say  she 
had  made  any  perceptible  difference  between 


Heart's  Dearest  141 

them  and  him  when  the  four  children  were 
together.  Why,  she  even  used  to  kiss  him 
good-night  in  his  cot-bed  quite  the  same  as 
Waldemar,  and  year  after  year  in  the  holidays 
see  the  strange  child's  dark  locks  and  her  own 
boy's  fairer  head  almost  on  one  pillow.  No, 
her  conscience  was  tranquil  on  that  point. 

Nor  was  she  one  of  those  heartless  cynics  who 
systematically  discountenance  love-matches. 
On  the  contrary  she  approved  of  consulting 
the  affections  whenever  it  was  feasible.  She 
herself,  when  she  married  Erich,  had  been 
quite  as  pleased  and  silly  and  all  that  as  any 
girl,  and  was  very  fond  of  him  still  of  course, 
and  all  that.  Certainly  she  had  been  an 
excellent  wife  to  him,  and  it  was  considered 
everywhere  an  unusually  happy  and  united 
marriage.  And  Erich  thirty  years  gcrne  had 
been  the  veriest  Romeo.  Why,  Aunt  Clo- 
tilde  even  thought  he  acted  almost  bourgeois. 
Still  marrying  for  love  was  not  all  of  life,  or 
why  was  she  so  worn  with  heavy  care  ;  trying 
to  the  best  of  her  ability  to  serve  her  family's 
interests,  yet  to  all  intents  and  purposes  strug 
gling  on  alone?  In  really  vital  matters,  how 
much  support  and  sympathy  had  she  from 
Erich  now,  in  spite  of  his  raptures  then? 


142  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

Bad  as  things  were,  did  she  so  much  as  inti 
mate  a  remedy,  he  invariably  said,  and  sharply 
too,  for  lovers'  voices  change  a  bit  in  thirty 
years,  "  For  God's  sake,  don't  worry  the  child  ! 
Hurry  her  in  nothing.  Let  her  take  her  time, 
and  be  happy  in  her  own  way,"  and  then  he  'd 
run  his  hand  with  that  abrupt  motion  through 
his  hair,  as  if  he  were  on  the  point  of  going 
distracted  if  he  heard  another  word.  She 
dared  not  show  him  Benno's  letter  —  so  soon 
again  after  the  last.  One  could  hardly  an 
swer  for  the  consequences.  Sometimes  indeed 
Erich  was  so  terribly  nervous  and  jaded  she 
feared  he  would  break  down  altogether. 

No,  it  was  but  too  obvious  that  young 
people's  most  fulminating  emotions  could  in 
sure  no  perennial  bliss.  For  her  part  she 
simply  held  there  were  occasions  when  a  mar 
riage  established  on  a  solid  and  purely  reason 
able  basis  should  be  welcomed  and  sagaciously 
furthered,  and  this  was  distinctly  one  of  them. 
Had  Eck  Frege's  millions,  she  was  liberal 
enough  to  prefer  Eck,  untitled  as  he  was.  But 
unhappily  one  could  not  readjust  these  things. 
One  could  but  accept  such  facts  as  Providence 
presented  and  make  the  best  of  them.  That 
is  what  she  intended  to  do. 


Heart's  Dearest  143 

Certain  miseries  of  her  own  experience  she 
would,  if  possible,  avert  from  that  ungrateful 
child  whose  downcast  eyes  and  persistent 
twirling  of  one  blue  tassel  seemed  to  pro 
claim  no  surrender.  Should  then  a  creature 
so  youthful  still  that  she  could  consume  six 
chocolate  eclairs  in  swift  succession,  without 
a  symptom  of  indigestion,  be  permitted  by 
sane  people  in  cold  blood  to  be  the  arbiter  of 
her  own  destiny. 

And  what,  when  all  was  said,  did  Nelka 
want?  She  knew  not  herself.  She  had  no 
definite  ideas.  She  simply  thought,  in  her 
silly  school-girl  way,  it  would  be  nice  to  go 
off  with  Eck  on  a  sort  of  perpetual  picnic. 
Paul  and  Virginia!  Now  what  did  that  mean? 
In  spite  of  Eck's  brilliant  mental  endowments 
and  will-o'-the-wisp  great  projects,  what  in 
plain  words  was  the  position  which  he,  aided 
by  Erich's  influence,  was  moving  heaven  and 
earth  to  procure?  That  of  a  mere  secretary 
to  a  wild  horde  of  explorers  and  savants.  To 
this  amiable  nomad  Nelka  should  engage  her 
self,  and  wait  years  probably  until  he  could 
support  her.  In  this  visionary  fashion  he 
reckoned  differently  of  course,  and  foresaw 
mellifluous  chances ;  but  how  about  those  two 


144  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

sisters  for  whom  even  now  he  had  to  provide 
something-a-ycar  ? 

Nevertheless,  according  to  his  naive  pro 
gramme,  when  he  should  deign  to  beckon, 
Nelka  was  to  desert  her  family  and  station  and 
to  start  —  on  a  wheel,  in  a  balloon,  anyhow  — 
with  him  for  unknown  parts.  While  he  was 
penetrating  jungles  and  making  literature,  she 
would  be  hanging  about  fever-stricken  ports, 
and,  like  an  adventuress,  living  alone  in  cheap 
pensions,  provided  they  had  pensions  in  Africa, 
which  was  by  no  means  sure.  Or  would  she 
go  jungling  too  —  a  pistol  in  her  belt? 

The  countess  drew  herself  up,  smiled  an 
Olympic  smile,  and  hoped  she  knew  her  duty. 
There  were  ineptitudes  too  insensate  to  admit 
of  discussion  — outside  an  asylum.  That  nice 
little  round  black  head  persisted  in  thrust 
ing  itself  among  her  thoughts  and  pleading 
dumbly.  It  gave  her  a  curious  discomfort, 
against  which  she  rallied,  and  feverishly  wished 
it,  with  appurtenances,  would  accelerate  its 
plans,  recede  from  civilization,  and  in  clue 
season  vanish  altogether  beneath  African  skies, 
—  a  sunstroke,  a  lion,  or  something,  —  of  course 
without  hurting  him. 

"  Perhaps    we  'd    better    dress    now,    dear," 


Heart's  Dearest  145 

she  said  affably ;  "  you  will  wear  your  brown 
velvet,  I  presume?" 

Nelka  looked  up,  and  stopped  twirling  her 
tassel. 

"  I  'm  not  going,  mamma,"  she  said  reso 
lutely. 

"  Not  Gfoing  !  " 


lunches,"  she  declared — inscribing  in  her 
mental  agenda,  "  at  least  while  Eck  is  away, 
and  writes  me  not  a  word,  and  everybody  and 
everything  make  me  miserable." 

"  This  is  not  Baron  Fregc's  lunch,  dearest." 

"  Well,  his  sister's  then ;  it  is  quite  the  same 
thing." 

"  But  we  have  accepted." 

"You— not  I." 

"But,  Nelka  —  " 

"  Say  anything  you  like  to  them,  mamma. 
If  you  tell  them  I  don't  feel  at  all  well,  it  is 
quite  true.  The  mere  thought  of  the  man 
makes  me  seasick.  Besides,  papa  told  me  last 
night  I  need  not  always  go  out  if  I  do  not 
like.  He  said  there  is  no  earthly  reason 
why  I  may  not  stay  at  home  whenever  I 
please." 

"  I   am   sorry  you  thought   it  necessary  to 


146  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

trouble  your  poor  tired  papa  with  such  trivial 
matters,"  the  countess  said  very  sweetly. 

Nelka  colored. 

"  I  know  papa  is  always  dead  tired.  I 
suppose  it  was  selfish  of  me  to  bother  him, 
though  it  was  only  a  moment.  But  some 
times —  sometimes  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
or  where  to  turn,"  she  said  low  and  strenu 
ously. 

This  was  one  of  the  remarks  which  the 
countess  thought  best  not  to  hear. 

"  By  the  way,  Nelka  dear,  —  it  may  be  an 
old-fashioned  notion,  but  at  least  it  is  a  well- 
bred  one,  —  I  was  taught  when  I  was  young 
that  when  a  man  loved  a  woman  and  offered 
her  his  hand  and  heart,  he  was  paying  her 
high  honor,  the  highest  in  his  power,  and 
therefore,  whether  she  accepted  him  or  not, 
she  was  bound  to  treat  him  with  respect." 

"It  sounds  all  right,"  returned  the  young 
girl,  slowly;  "but  somehow  there  is  some 
thing  the  matter  with  it  somewhere."  After  a 
moment,  "  For  my  part,  I  think  it  funny," 
she  remarked  disdainfully.  "  If  I  see  a  peach 
on  a  tree  and  want  it,  should  the  peach  be 
grateful?  To  be  sure,  in  some  cases  — 
she  reflected,  with  a  marvellous  change  of 


Heart's  Dearest  147 

expression,  but  broke  off  with  a  sharp,  "  Be 
sides,  nobody  has  asked  me  to  marry  him, 
and  never  shall,  if  I  can  help  it,"  which  was 
not,  in  the  phrasing  at  least,  strictly  accurate. 

"  Well,  well,  child,  I  merely  made  a  sug 
gestion.  Let  it  pass.  But  I  really  would 
not  drag  my  poor  father  into  my  petty  per 
sonal  concerns,"  pursued  the  mother,  gently, 
"  whether  I  did  or  did  not  lunch  out." 

"  Very  good,"  Nelka  returned  coldly,  her 
gaze  steady. 

"  She  is  fairly  at  bay.  Never  have  I  seen  her 
so  curious,"  mused  the  countess,  and  remarked 
easily:  — 

"  I  shall  go,  of  course,  and  I  am  sorry  to  go 
alone.  Still  it  is  not  worth  further  discussion. 
What  do  you  propose  doing?" 

"  I  intend  to  learn  to  make  a  bisque,"  Nelka 
returned,  with  sustained  and  childlike  defiance; 
"  and  I  am  going  instantly  out  to  the  kitchen 
to  ask  that  nice  little  thing  to  teach  me." 

Her  mother,  after  contemplating  her  an  in 
stant,  rejoined :  - 

"  By  all  means,  my  love,"  but  sighed  with 
deep-drawn  impatience  when  the  young  girl 
had  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

Presently  Nelka  returned. 


148  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"  There,  mamma  !  I  made  her  come.  Look 
at  us." 

Comtesse  Nclka  wore  a  bit  of  white  fluting 
on  the  top  of  her  head,  had  donned  a  long 
white  apron,  pushed  up  her  sleeves,  and 
stood  at  ease,  her  arms  akimbo.  Her  ex 
pression  was  brilliantly  happy  and  amiable  if 
a  trifle  mischievous. 

"  Ah,  Vroni,  good-morning,"  said  the  lady, 
urbanely.  "  You  are  going  to  give  Comtesse 
Nelka  a  lesson?  That  is  very  nice  I  am 
sure. " 

"  But  look,  mamma.     See  me,  see  us  !  " 

The  mother  smiled  blandly,  without  regard 
ing  her  wayward  daughter's  masquerade.  All 
should  be  granted  her,  —  caprices,  eccentrici 
ties,  nonsense,  luxuries,  dainty  toilettes  they 
could  ill  afford.  She  should  perceive  and  feel 
their  devotion,  their  self-sacrifice,  their  bound 
less  indulgence.  In  return,  —  she  should  do 
her  duty. 

"  Your  dinner  last  night  was  again  perfec 
tion,  Vroni,"  she  remarked  with  unwonted 
benignity  and  expansion.  "  Your  sauces  are 
so  choice ;  I  get  nothing  so  good  elsewhere ; 
and  that  supreme  de pcches  was  exquisite.  And 
your  accounts  always  so  clear  and  reasonable. 


Heart's  Dearest  149 

You  seem  to  get  on  so  quietly  with  the  others 
too  —  you  have  really  conciliated  them." 

"  Oh,  dear,  yes,"  Vroni  answered  with  a  short 
laugh. 

"  Well,  mamma,  if  you  '11  not  look  at  me,  — 
and  I  do  look  nice,  —  almost  as  handsome  as 
Vroni,  —  I  think  I  '11  go  and  make  my  bisque." 

"  Amuse  yourself,  dear  child.  I  shall  not 
be  gone  very  long." 

Nelka  turned  on  the  threshold.  "  It  is  not 
amusement.  It  is  sober  earnest.  It  is  highly 
important  that  I  learn  to  make  a  bisque,  you 
know,  mamma,  and  immediately." 

Now  in  the  comparison  deliberately  pro 
voked  by  Comtcsse  Nelka,  and  suavely  ignored 
by  her  mother,  the  salient  disadvantages  ought 
to  have  been  on  Vroni's  side.  Appealing  to 
the  comtesse  herself  for  countenance,  let  us 
see  if  they  were. 

There  are  various  ways  of  drawing  this  com 
parison.  One  way  is  not  to  draw  it  at  all,  to 
regard  it  as  non-existent,  as  did  the  Countess 
von  Vallade.  Hers  was  a  fine,  a  subtle  way, 
and  many  would  do  likewise  had  they  her 
presence  of  mind.  May  their  tribe  increase 
and  Allah  grant  them  true  vision  ! 

Another   way   is  the  way  of  the  parti  pris 


150  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

which  sits  enthroned  in  estimable  craniums, 
and  categorically  judges  manners,  morals, 
tragedies,  art,  war,  crops,  politics,  hailstones, 
and  all  else  under  the  sun,  and  is  never  at  a 
loss  or  puzzled,  but  always  burly  and  cocksure, 
because  it  knows  beforehand  with  no  doubt, 
study,  or  examination  how  all  things  ought  to 
be  and  therefore  are.  A  comtesse  —  pur 
sang — and  one  of  the  protttaire;  aristocrat, 
plebeian;  lady,  cook;  delicacy,  coarseness;  no 
more  to  be  said.  Peace  be  with  them  of  this 
mind  also,  —  and  true  vision. 

But  some,  wandering  over  land  and  sea,  not 
always  in  fair  weather,  and  beholding  "  cities 
of  men  and  manners,  climates,  councils,  gov 
ernments  "  —  some  no  less  who  stay  quietly  at 
home  —  have  been  taught,  chiefly,  no  doubt, 
by  their  own  great  blunders  and  frailties,  after 
much  stumbling  and  groping  in  the  dark,  after 
sorrow  and  disaster,  to  cease  forever  from  draw 
ing  hard  lines  of  demarcation  between  classes, 
between  soul  and  soul,  and  arc  learning  it  is  no 
use  to  box  up  and  label  wares  so  fluctuating 
and  protean  as  human  attributes,  since  they 
deride  classification,  interpenetrate,  and  law 
lessly  spring  at  one  from  the  wrong  box. 

For    such    nomad    spirits,    they    who    make 


Heart's  Dearest  151 

weary  pilgrimages,  they  too  who  in  the  body 
abide  at  home,  see  strange  and  puzzling  sights  : 
vacuity  clad  in  ermine;  kings  hauling  cod  or 
tending  cattle ;  a  fishwife's  face  and  voice  be 
neath  a  duchess's  coronet;  a  lady,  gentle  and 
punctilious,  crying  her  wares  on  the  market; 
youth,  skeptical,  astute,  and  miserly,  —  age, 
ardent,  full  of  faith ;  the  tiger  and  the  ape 
stalking  in  evening  dress  in  Drawing-rooms 
and  West  End  clubs ;  vulgarity,  blatant  in  ex 
clusive  cliques  where  most  decried ;  mixed 
motives  everywhere ;  everywhere  flung  broad 
cast  among  high  and  low  God's  fair  gifts  of 
beauty,  brain,  and  goodness ;  everywhere  the 
longing,  struggling  hearts  of  humanity,  and  in 
every  human  heart  the  base  and  the  divine. 

Such  seeking  pilgrims  then  who  once  have 
looked  thus  into  the  world's  kaleidoscope  can 
no  longer  extol  mere  rank,  or  arrogantly  hold 
that  in  the  increase  of  wealth,  trade,  and  in 
vention  of  machinery  lies  progress.  Without 
reviling  of  that  which  had  in  the  past  its  raison 
d'etre,  they  are  inclined  to  believe  that  while 
the  dominant  conditions  of  worldliness  and 
class  privileges  endure,  civilization  has  hardly 
dawned  upon  the  earth.  With  longing  and  with 
confidence,  they  look  toward  no  millennium 


152  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

indeed,  yet  to  a  coming  age  when  the  mission 
of  the  slow,  inevitable  years  shall  be  accom 
plished  ;  when  a  sane  and  wholesome  mode  of 
life  and  education  shall  be  possible  for  all, 
surrounding  all,  free  as  the  sunlight  and  green 
grass  ;  when  every  man  and  every  woman  shall 
have  at  least  a  fair  start,  a  chance,  at  least,  of 
attaining  his  highest  possible  development; 
when  public  sentiment  shall  honor  the  worker 
and  regard  chronic  idleness  in  either  sex  as  a 
social  disgrace;  when  woman  shall  be  her  own 
calm  guardian ;  when  prisons,  slums,  and 
brothels,  which  now  attest  our  cruelty  and 
cowardice,  shall  be  as  obsolete  as  the  rack,  the 
thumb-screw,  the  oubliette,  and  all  droits  dc 
seigneur ;  when  the  nations  shall  have  ceased 
to  be  armed  bands  of  barbaric  warriors  ;  when, 
in  short,  our  apathetic  senses  shall  be  quickened 
and  illumined  until  we  perceive  the  vital  truth 
that,  however  puny  and  impotent  man  may 
remain  before  the  vast  forces  of  nature,  as 
regards  his  own  species  he  is  eternally  respon 
sible,  irrevocably  his  brother's  keeper. 

Pilgrims  of  this  complexion  —  to  them,  too, 
peace  and  true  vision,  but  true  vision  at  any 
cost  though  peace  fail  —  have  then  gently 
abandoned  certain  hoary  social  fictions,  have 


Heart's  Dearest 

ceased  unquestioning  to  bow  the  knee  to 
convention,  legend,  and  tradition,  yet  duly 
esteeming  these  last  in  their  place;  and  not 
unmindful  all  are  significant,  many  indeed 
beautiful  and  pathetic  relics  marking  ttapes  on 
the  stern  and  weary  road  our  brave  race  has 
trod  in  its  interminable  ascent. 

They,  the  misguided  pilgrims,  approaching 
in  their  own  spirit  the  comparison  above  pro 
posed,  would,  with  sufferance,  employ  also 
their  own  method,  —  which  some  indeed  deem 
dangerously  levelling  and  foreshadowing  uni 
versal  disintegration,  —  namely,  to  inspect  the 
two  young  human  creatures  as  they  stand, 
observe  them  with  fairness,  take  careful  meas 
urements- — -physical  and  so  far  as  possible 
moral  —  and  honestly  to  record  the  results  — 
as  follows : 


154  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 


VIII 

BLUE  blood,  according  to  popular  credence, 
should  have  coursed  through  the  smaller 
hands  and  feet ;  but,  as  it  happened,  Nelka's 
were  the  longer,  larger,  and  less  firmly  knit. 
Vroni  should  have  had  the  few  freckles  which 
did  no  injury  to  Nelka's  beauty,  but  high  life 
had  monopolized  them.  The  two  were  not 
unlike  in  general  coloring,  that  of  Vroni  be 
ing  warmer,  more  vivid.  In  height  and  shape 
they  were  not  widely  dissimilar ;  but  Vroni's 
bearing  was  the  more  resolute  and  spirited, 
Nelka's  at  times  somewhat  languid — which 
in  her  circle  was  regarded  as  a  grace,  but  in 
Vroni's  would  have  been  denounced  as 
"  dawdling." 

As  to  the  thing  we  vaguely  term  refinement, 
of  which  happily  are  innumerable  kinds,  beside 
the  special  sort  monopolized  by  society  news- 
columns,  neither  face  possessed  the  refinement 
which  profound  thought  may  impart,  or  that 
of  patient  sorrow,  or  of  certain  forms  of  ill 


Heart's  Dearest  155 

health,  or  that  which  the  habit  of  pure  and 
ardent  prayer  may  lend  to  the  homeliest  fea 
tures  ;  but,  so  far  as  smooth  fresh  faces,  like 
young  children's  unetched  by  emotion  and 
care,  may  express  refinement,  and  surely  this 
must  be  but  in  prophecy,  one  girl  equalled 
the  other,  and  whether  comtesse  or  cook  was 
the  prettier  would  be  a  mere  matter  of  in 
dividual  taste.  Both  had  rather  large,  hand 
some,  pleasure-loving  mouths.  Both  were 
by  nature  careless  and  frank  of  mien.  But 
it  must  in  justice  be  said  for  Comtesse  Nelka 
that,  considering  the  massive  disadvantages  of 
her  environment,  she  was  an  exceedingly  fresh 
simple-hearted  girl  with  little  nonsense  about 
her. 

In  point  of  education,  if  by  that  we  mean 
the  training  of  one's  faculties,  Vroni  was  far 
and  away  beyond  Nclka.  The  little  comtesse 
could,  it  is  true,  chatter  in  four  languages. 
She  could  sing  small  songs  fairly  well,  knew 
who  Ibsen  was  and  Tolstoi,  but  was  not 
allowed  to  sec  GJiosts  on  the  stage,  or  read 
the  Krcutzer-Sonata  or  Anna  Karcnina. 
Sudermann's  HcimatJi  also  she  might  not 
sec  played,  although  she  and  all  the  young 
girls  of  her  set  went  placidly  to  Don  Giovanni, 


156  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

Rigolctto,  and  Trai'iata.  She  never  puzzled 
her  little  head  about  these  discrepancies  in 
social  rubrics,  and  that  was  wise,  for  the  great 
panjandrum  himself  cannot  explain  them.  She 
attended  art  lectures,  and  was  taken  to  picture- 
galleries.  She  read  whatever  books  her  mother 
thought  proper  for  an  eighteen-year-old  girl 
in  the  best  society.  They  were  not  many, 
and  notably  few  were  written  by  great  authors. 
Authors  have  an  unpleasant  way  of  some 
times  seeking  to  approach  the  essential  mean 
ings  of  life. 

Nelka  could  dance  admirably.  When  she 
made  her  reverence  before  their  Majesties, 
she  sank  down  and  backward  and  back  and 
downward,  until  it  seemed  impossible  for 
her  ever  to  come  up  again  without  touch 
ing  her  fingers  to  the  floor,  and  what  she 
did  with  all  her  mechanism  while  thus 
mysteriously  poised,  you  could  not  imagine, 
unless  she  "  telescoped  "  it  in  some  marvel 
lous  fashion.  At  all  events,  a  large  portion 
of  her  seemed  to  vanish  altogether.  Then, 
boneless  as  a  wave  of  the  sea,  yet  with  the 
wave's  soft  solidarity,  her  eyelids  demurely 
drooping,  a  half  smile  on  her  lips,  she 
floated  up  again  with  a  serene  swan-like 


Heart's  Dearest  157 

motion  and  stood  erect  and  suave,  none  of 
her  charming  person  missing.  It  was  a 
pretty  sight,  and  a  score  of  lieutenants  would 
ride  hard  to  see  it,  and  never  failed  when  they 
got  half  a  chance,  and  much  good  it  did 
them,  for  Nelka  von  Vallade's  destiny  was  an 
open  secret. 

But  this  one  perfect  achievement  hardly 
equipped  fair  Nelka  for  the  struggle  for  life. 
Thrown  upon  her  own  resources,  wrecked 
upon  the  immortal  desert  island  of  fiction, 
flung  into  the  midst  of  a  new  and  struggling 
community,  or  simply  required  anywhere  to 
earn  her  bread  and  shelter  without  aid  or 
favoritism,  it  is  to  be  feared  she  would  have 
starved.  She  could  ride  tolerably  well.  If 
desert  islands,  struggling  communities,  or  the 
haunts  of  poverty  could  have  provided  trained 
saddle  horses  and  paid  her  for  looking  be- 
witchingly  pretty  on  them,  she  might  have 
made  a  fortune.  She  could  skate  and  cycle,  and 
was  a  fine  healthy  girl  and  no  doll.  But  they 
had  stunted  her  powers  curiously,  taught  her 
to  do  nothing  at  all  thoroughly,  and  all  that 
she  did  was  overpraised.  Not  even  those  much 
spoiled  urchins,  Benno,  Knod,  and  Waldemar, 
were,  in  their  schooldays  at  least,  commended 


158  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

for  what  they  could  not  clo,  —  that  insult  seems 
to  be  reserved  for  girls,  —  but  were  forced  to 
do  solid  work  for  implacable  masters  who 
took  themselves  and  Greek  and  Latin  prose 
with  unpardonable  seriousness,  and  relentlessly 
rubbed  mathematics  and  other  injuries  into 
the  boys'  reluctant  pates.  That  there  were 
a  few  things  not  with  impunity  to  be  trifled 
with,  the  three  learned  in  their  youth,  what 
ever  their  world  took  pains  to  teach  them 
afterward. 

But  nobody  really  minded  very  much  which 
way  Nclka's  accents  turned.  Gracious  and  affa 
ble,  she  sat  in  the  class-room  and  let  professors 
parade  miles  of  'ologics  and  'isms  before  her. 
Her  vapid  themes  received  flattering  marks, 
and  the  master  always  touched  up  her  draw 
ing.  A  professor,  pointing  out  to  his  class 
the  distinction  between  true  nobility  and  the 
modern  paltry  sort  created  through  great 
wealth  or  some  other  inadequate  reason, 
turned  to  her  and  said :  "  But  you,  com- 
tesse,  with  your  great  and  historic  name,  may 
well  be  proud,"  etc.  Nelka  was  not  silly,  but 
for  an  instant  felt  as  if  she  personally  were  the 
Palladium  of  the  Empire.  It  was  all  very 
agreeable. 


Heart's  Dearest  159 

A  maid  sewed  for  her,  half  dressed  her, 
hung  up  what  she  carelessly  threw  down,  kept 
order  for  her,  or  there  would  have  been  none. 
Her  hands  were  for  the  most  part  pretty  and 
useless  appendages  like  ribbons  on  her  frock. 
She  was  presented  at  Court  at  the  age  of  six 
teen,  and  had  been  exceedingly  occupied  ever 
since  with  multitudinous  social  functions.  In 
spite  of  her  helplessness,  due  to  neglect  of 
certain  faculties  and  to  a  systematic  swathing 
and  compressing  treatment  of  other  ones,  Nelka 
was  an  intelligent  being  who,  had  they  let  her 
go  off  and  rough  it  with  Eck  Flemming,  might, 
inspired  by  love  and  under  the  wholesome  in 
fluence  of  necessity,  have  yet  come  to  her  own 
as  an  efficient  being.  Loving  and  loyal  the 
girl  was,  a  miracle  of  freshness  among  things 
hollow  and  insincere. 

When  Vroni  made  her  courtesy,  —  Knix,  she 
called  it,  —  she  just  touched  her  toe  to  the 
ground  behind  her,  and  bending  the  knees 
gave  a  sudden  little  dip,  —  a  simple  process  but 
good  of  its  kind.  She  could  dance  after  the 
fashion  of  Hcxenfels.  She  could  sing  better 
than  Nclka,  if  the  truth  were  known,  though 
only  folk  songs  —  no  Solfeggi  di  Bordogni, 
no  bianca  luna  or  biondina  bclla.  She  liked 


160  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

pictures  better  perhaps  than  did  Nclka,  and 
coming  from  market  always  stood  a  few  mo 
ments,  her  basket  on  her  arm,  in  the  crowd 
before  two  broad  windows,  and  had  her  own 
clear  impressions,  which  she  would  not  have 
hesitated  to  express  to  the  King,  had  his 
Majesty  given  her  the  opportunity;  while 
Nclka,  frank  child  as  she  was,  yet  felt  con 
scious  there  was  a  picture-jargon  she  had  not 
mastered,  and  dared  not  always  like  the  thing 
she  really  liked.  In  point  of  dense  ignorance 
of  art  there  was  little  to  choose  between  them. 
But  Vroni  looked  sharply  at  painted  trees  and 
animals,  and  was  quick  to  perceive  anomalies. 
She  knew  nothing  of  great  authors;  but  then 
all  that  Nelka  knew  of  them  was  that  they  were 
something  for  the  most  part  to  be  avoided  by 
girls  of  the  best  society.  Vroni  had  not  Nelka's 
vocabulary  and  polite  phrases,  but  spoke  the 
Rough  Alp  dialect  pleasingly,  not  without  a 
piquant  charm,  sometimes  with  a  faint  trans 
mission  of  the  soft  tones  Dionysius  the  weaver 
had  caught  in  Vienna,  sometimes  with  a  robust 
brusqueness  rather  startling  to  the  nerves ;  but 
her  audience  usually  deserved  it. 

The     peasant     girl    filled    ably    a    position 
which,  beside  skill,  demanded  judgment,  fidcl- 


Heart's  Dearest  161 

ity,  energy,  self-reliance,  and  many  other  quali 
ties  of  which  Nelka,  for  no  fault  of  her  own, 
rarely  displayed  a  trace.  Nor  was  it  Nelka's 
fault  that  she  was  continually  imagining  she 
required  incredible  finery,  and  spending  insen 
sate  sums,  while  Vroni,  with  a  minimum  of 
needs,  sent  nearly  every  penny  she  earned  to 
Dionysius  the  weaver,  —  which  was  well,  for 
he  was  weaving  less  and  less.  Certain  austere 
colleagues  of  his  were  busying  themselves  in 
his  affairs.  Lachesis  held  his  life-thread 
loosely.  Atropos  had  raised  her  shears. 

Had  the  world  demanded  no  more  cooks, 
did  chemists  already  concoct  our  nutriment, 
Vroni  would  not  have  been  thrown  out  of 
employment.  She  could  have  turned  to  any 
one  of  a  dozen  serious  occupations.  She 
sewed  well  and  easily,  made  for  the  most  part 
her  own  clothes,  and  regarded  it  as  nothing; 
was  deft  and  shrewd  in  turning  and  piecing, 
and  faultlessly  and  swiftly  neat,  holding  all  her 
belongings  in  their  appointed  order.  No  do 
mestic  work  was  difficult  for  her,  no  farm 
work  or  running  or  any  amount  of  physical 
exercise.  She  possessed  intimate  knowledge 
of  the  care  of  vegetables  and  domestic  animals. 
She  used  ordinary  tools  like  a  boy,  and  hav- 


1 62  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

ing  none  would,  like  him,  have  constructed 
rude  substitutes.  Placed  in  some  unimagined 
situation  where  none  of  her  useful  arts  were 
available,  she  still  would  have  been  wholly 
unembarrassed,  for  her  energy,  combativeness, 
elasticity,  and  mastery  of  things  were  trained 
powers  upon  which  she  could  depend. 

Concerning  what  goes  by  the  name  of  good 
ness  or  innocence,  by  which  many  mean  com 
plete  ignorance  of  certain  phases  of  nature, 
these  two  eighteen-year-old  girls  stood,  it 
must  be  admitted,  upon  diametrically  opposite 
ground. 

Neither  felt  within  herself  any  special  in 
centive  to  probe  mysteries.  But  Vroni  had 
met  rugged  facts  face  to  face,  yet  had  been 
spared  a  cynical  or  even  frivolous  interpreta 
tion  of  them ;  while  Nelka  in  one  sense  unin 
formed,  had  yet  far  more  knowledge  of  the 
world — the  phrase  being  used  here  in  its 
accepted  sense,  knowledge  of  evil,  although 
why  it  should  not  occasionally  include  knowl 
edge  of  good  is  difficult  to  grasp  —  than  the 
girl  of  the  people.  For  many  things  arc  re 
vealed,  above  all  revealed  in  a  false  light,  only 
through  their  pointedly  enforced  avoidance. 

Nelka  was  so  scrupulously  guarded,  so  con- 


Heart's  Dearest  163 

tinually  instructed  what  she  must  not  read,  or 
see,  or  hear,  or  understand,  or  ever  seek  to 
penetrate,  she  involuntarily  scrutinized  these 
immense  precautions  and  wondered  what  lay 
beyond  the  Chinese  wall  encompassing  her. 

What  she  knew  of  the  sacred  theme  of 
motherhood  —  tabooed  to  young  girls  of  the 
best  society  —  was  gleaned  from  chance  hints, 
repressed  smiles,  half-spoken  sly  witticisms 
and  innuendoes,  even  though  she  herself  at 
sixteen  had  been  publicly  proclaimed,  with 
customary  rites,  a  full-fledged  aspirant  for 
matrimony. 

Since  with  the  best  will  in  the  world  it  is 
not  humanly  possible  for  girls  not  congenital 
idiots  to  preserve  their  minds  the  egregious 
blank  which  certain  circles  insist  they  should 
simulate,  Nelka  and  her  mates  perceived  much 
in  the  forbidden  field. 

Novels,  for  better  or  worse,  abetted  this 
branch  of  education.  Operas  which  she  might 
see  because  "  it  was  only  music,"  but  to  the 
plots  of  which  it  would  have  been  shocking  to 
allude,  lifted  portions  of  the  veil.  Great  Wag 
ner,  in  ways  unsuspected  by  the  authorities, 
was  perhaps,  with  the  humble  exception  of 
honest  Kck  Flemming,  the  one  true  apostle 


164  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

of  the  unknown  Eros  that  had  ever  crossed 
her  path.  For  the  Master's  titanic  themes  and 
pulsating  tragic  figures  moved  her  to  vague 
awe  and  reverence  of  the  vast  elemental  forces 
which  the  genteel  influences  encircling  her, 
the  fatuous  conspiracy  of  silence  no  less  than 
frivolous  jest  and  sneer,  strove  to  belie  or  to 
belittle. 

Curiously  enough  Vroni  also  when  very 
young  was  screened  much  after  the  conven 
tional  mode  of  the  upper  classes.  Such 
solicitude  on  the  part  of  the  peasants  living 
intimately  with  their  hoofed  allies  may  be 
viewed  with  more  or  less  incredulity,  but  is 
nevertheless  a  fact.  Dionysius  the  weaver 
told  his  child  quite  as  many  arrant  false 
hoods  as  a  person  of  the  finest  susceptibil 
ities  in  the  most  rarefied  worldly  atmosphere 
ever  concocted  for  his.  Small  new  arrivals  in 
the  village  were,  if  human,  invested  with  fabu 
lous  and  mythological  ancestry;  if  of  alien 
race,  were  ostensibly  bought  somewhere. 
The  weaver  punctiliously  assured  his  little 
daughter  that  he  had  brought  home  the  new 
born  calf  in  his  sack,  and,  sure  enough,  the 
corroborating  bag  never  failed  on  such  occa 
sions  to  lie  ostentatiously  by  the  door-stone. 


Heart's  Dearest  165 

On  a  certain  Christmas  Eve,  or  rather  Christ 
mas  Day,  for  it  was  already  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  Vroni  was  suddenly  roused  from 
sleep.  Ordinarily  no  witch-wind  or  thunder 
clap  could  wake  her.  But  they  had  had  their 
bit  of  Christmas  tree  adorned  with  candle 
stumps  and  a  few  apples  and  nuts ;  had  ex 
changed  their  simplest  gifts  of  needed  woollen 
things,  snuff,  shoes,  and  aprons;  had  stood 
gravely  before  the  lighted  tree  and  sung  in 
unison  at  the  beginning  and  close  of  their 
celebration  the  sweet  and  touching  strains  of 
Hcilige  NacJit ;  and  the  deep  charm  of  the  fes 
tal  season,  the  glamour  of  the  day,  had  sent 
her  to  bed  in  a  state  of  rapturous  excitement. 
Sleep  had  rest  but  fitfully  upon  her  eyelids, 
and  in  her  happy  visions  she  beheld  waving 
dream-lights,  and  heard  dream-voices  chant 
ing  always  the  familiar  Christmas  hymn. 

Not  quite  sure  of  the  actuality  of  the  un 
usual  sounds  and  movements  which  had  dis 
turbed  her,  she  slipped  into  her  frock  and  ran 
to  the  kitchen.  She  was,  it  seemed,  really 
awake,  for  a  light  stood  on  the  table;  a 
great  fire  was  crackling;  in  the  chimney 
corner  lay,  in  a  broad  basket,  two  new 
born  calves  too  weak  to  stand  and  covered 


1 66  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

warmly  with  old  sacks;  while  Agathe,  in 
immense  agitation,  tears  streaming  down  her 
cheeks,  was  tending  them  better  than  if  they 
were  human  twins,  and  feeding  them  from  the 
flask  and  tube  once  Vroni's  own.  The  aston 
ished  child  lingering  with  great  dazed  eyes  in 
the  doorway,  the  mother  curtly  requisitioned 
her. 

"  Step  along  quick,  thou  starer,  and  hold 
this  bottle,"  and  flew  forthwith  to  the  barn  to 
lavish  upon  the  chief  sufferer  the  care  and  at 
tention  of  which  she  was  in  sore  need. 

Presently  Dionysius  also  came  in  from  the 
cow-mother.  Agathe,  as  she  sprang  to  and 
fro,  moaned  aloud  in  pity  for  the  brindle, 
the  feeble  offspring,  and  for  the  loss  to  her 
own  estate,  and  arraigning  fate,  repeatedly 
vociferated,  — 

"  But  't  was  a  fine  big  calf  I  wanted  !  Woe 
is  me  !  Oh  Weh  !  " 

Although  she  heated  milk  six  times  for 
those  frail  twins,  and  fed  them  from  the 
bottle,  and  kept  them  snug  and  warm,  the 
little  things  lived  only  through  holy  Christ 
mas  Day,  and  when  they  breathed  their  last, 
Agathe  wept  with  loud  lamentation.  But, 
thanks  to  her  devotion,  the  cherished  brindle 


Heart's  Dearest  167 

recovered  fully,  and  when  first  able  to  issue 
from  the  stall,  that  she  might  break  no  leg 
or  horn  or  any  other  evil  befall  her  after 
her  professional  troubles,  she  was  respect 
fully  proffered,  as  she  crossed  the  threshold 
of  the  barn,  a  piece  of  bread  strewn  with 
holy  salt,  —  specially  blessed  in  the  church 
on  Candlemas  Day  for  the  rehabilitation  of 
bovine  mothers,  if  members  of  Christian 
families. 

But  early  on  that  Christmas  morning  as  the 
child  Vroni,  half-dressed,  her  eyes  still  big 
with  amazement,  sat  on  the  floor  by  the  crack 
ling  fire  of  fagots  and  pitifully  tended  the 
helpless  calf  infants,  Dionysius  dropped  upon 
a  stool  close  by  and  watched  her  silently. 

Suddenly,  in  her  quick  way,  the  girl  looked 
up:  - 

"Say,  father,  didst  bring  them  this  time  in 
two  sacks?  Why  didst  thou  buy  so  weak 
ones  and  weak-legged?  Yet  they  arc  dear.  I 
like  them  rarely  well,  better  indeed  than  the 
last  calf  thou  didst  fetch,  though  he  was 
strong,  and  stood  on  his  four  legs  and  looked 
at  me.  Say,  father,  what  ails  Brindle?" 

Perhaps  Dionysius  gazing  down  upon  the 
basket  saw  nothing  radically  iniquitous  therein. 


1 68  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

He  may,  too,  have  dreaded  the  harsh  effect  of 
the  half  distraught  Agathe's  realistic  ejacula 
tions.  It  may  be  his  little  maid,  crouching 
there  with  \visc  and  motherly  mien,  appealed 
to  him  in  some  tender  way  as  herself  a  woman- 
child,  or  he  felt  reluctant  to  fib  on  holy  Christ 
mas  Morn. 

At  all  events,  he  abandoned  the  whole  brood 
of  conventional  fables,- — sacks,  storks,  rose 
bushes,  and  cabbages,  —  and  gently  told  her 
certain  truths  about  the  baby-calves,  the 
brindle,  —  beasts,  birds,  trees,  flowers,  and  her 
self.  She  listened  gravely,  as  children  do, 
hardly  astonished,  in  no  wise  discomfited,  but 
calmly  fitting  what  he  said  to  anterior  matters 
half-noted,  confusing,  which  now  grew  clear. 

O'  O 

That  day  at  church  she  looked  with  softer 
eyes  upon  the  Manger,  and  better  understood 
Father  Aloysius's  simple  and  tender  picture  of 
the  Infant  Christ  among  the  animals.  All  day 
long  her  mother  and  she,  and  the  weaver  no 
less,  were  ministering  to  the  poor  things  that 
had  not  strength  to  live.  It  was  a  bitter  grief 
to  her  to  see  them  die. 

From  that  time,  in  her  sentiments  toward 
any  helpless  new-born  thing,  human  or  other 
wise,  and  toward  the  simple  marvellous  fact  of 


Heart's  Dearest  169 

birth,  floated,  like  sacred  incense,  memories 
of  the  weaver's  gentle  revelations  of  the  uni 
versal  laws  of  life  upon  this  planet;  memories 
of  her  mother's  unfailing  goodness  to  animals  ; 
thoughts  of  the  Child  in  the  Manger,  and  great 
soft  eyes  like  Brindle's  gazing  at  Him  from 
dusky  places ;  and  with  this,  inevitably  com 
mingled,  the  vivid  remembrance  of  those 
scarce  breathing  forms  in  the  basket,  and  the 
appeal  of  their  great  helplessness  for  pity  and 
protection.  Thus,  for  her,  over  the  whole 
mystery  of  birth  hovered  a  Christmas  conse 
cration. 

Nor  did  the  subsequent  rude  obviousness  of 
farm-life,  the  manifold  sequence  of  wholesome 
natural  events  which  at  times  frankly  but 
briefly  monopolized  the  attention  of  the  fam 
ily,  ever  obliterate  those  early  and  powerful 
impressions. 


170  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 


IX 


LESS  adroit  than  a  little  child  in  humble  fami 
lies,  Nelka  stood  rather  awkwardly  handling 
dishes  and  implements,  dropping  things,  and 
soiling  her  apron.  Her  aspirations  bisqnc- 
wards  she  had  been  obliged  temporarily  to 
curb,  because  Vroni,  although  most  eager  and 
disposed,  could  not  evolve  crabs  from  her 
inner  consciousness.  But,  radiant  to  have  her 
lovely  lady  close  at  hand,  companionable,  and 
imploring  to  be  taught  something  as  fast  as 
possible,  Vroni  had  set  her  the  task  of  mixing 
a  mayonnaise,  —  a  simple  thing,  yet  one  made 
of  ingredients  that  refuse  to  combine  at  hap 
hazard. 

"  Is  it  very  useful,  Vroni?"  asked  the  little 
comtesse,  anxiously.  "  For  instance,  on  long 
journeys?" 

"  It  is  a  thing  one  has  to  know,  if  one  knows 
anything  at  all,"  pronounced  the  high  Court  of 
Appeal. 


Heart's  Dearest  171 

Whereupon  Nelka,  with  the  rapt  air  of  a 
templar  vowing  himself  to  a  crusade,  began 
to  stir,  repeating  in  a  painstaking  and  childlike 
way  her  instructions  :  "  Drop  by  drop,  drop  by 
drop,"  but  failing  so  signally  in  the  enjoined 
frugality  that  Vroni  soon  had  to  rescue  and 
sustain  the  imperilled  mixture. 

"  Why  do  you  slowly  twirl  the  plate  with 
the  other  hand?"  asked  the  comtesse.  "  Does 
that  make  it  come  faster?  " 

Vroni  looked  up  slightly  surprised. 

"  I  never  thought  why,"  she  returned.  "  My 
master  did  it,"  -  -  for  her  a  supreme  reason. 
Finishing  the  mayonnaise,  she  scraped  it  into  a 
glass,  which  she  set  away  in  the  pantry,  mean 
while  whistling  between  her  teeth  a  vaudeville 
chansonette;  and  as  she  carefully  wiped  the 
mouth  of  the  oil  bottle,  and  whisked  it  across 
the  range  of  her  olfactories,  she  unconsciously 
cocked  her  left  eyebrow  with  a  delightfully  iron 
ical  expression,  —  Gireaud's  inveterate  greet 
ing  and  farewell  to  that  indispensable  but 
uncertain  friend. 

Nelka  watched  her  with  ever-increasing  re 
spect,  a  sort  of  fascination,  and  more  depressed 
than  she  cared  to  own. 

"  Now  what  else  shall  I  teach  the  gracious 


Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

comtessc?"  asked  Vroni,  alert,  as  if  they  had 
already  accomplished  wonders. 

"  Perhaps  I  '11  not  work  any  more  at  pres 
ent,"  the  young  lady  returned  in  her  kind  way, 
but  quite  fine  and  self-contained,  and  con 
tinued  serenely:  "I  think  I  shall  learn  quite 
as  much  by  looking  on.  Should  n't  you  think 
that  would  be  a  very  good  way?" 

Vroni  knit  her  brows  to  consider  what  was 
to  her  a  wholly  novel  scheme,  and  shook  her 
head  dubiously,  as  she  fetched  a  couple  of 
large  bowls  and  mechanically  began  to  scrape 
salsify. 

"  Do  you  stand  up  always  at  such  work?" 

"  No,  but  I  know  my  manners,"  rejoined 
Vroni,  in  this  respect  somewhat  unduly 
proud. 

"  But  I  do  not  mind  at  all." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Vroni,  calmly,  and  sat  down, 
working  some  minutes  in  silence. 

"  You  do  think  I  can  learn  the  bisque  ? " 
burst  plaintively  from  Nelka. 

Most  reluctant  in  this  special  case  to  disap 
point  or  wound,  too  honest  to  flatter,  moved 
also  by  an  instinct  steadily  and  strongly  de 
veloping  in  her  now,  that  bade  her  hold  her 
culinary  lore  high  and  intact,  yet  more  than 


Heart's  Dearest  173 

half  divining  the  source  of  the  comtesse's  sud 
den  ardor  and  persistency,  Vroni  was  frankly 
at  a  loss  what  to  reply. 

"  Don't  you  think  I  can  learn  anything  at 
all?  "  came  now  quite  piteously  from  the  com 
tesse's  lips. 

"  Not  to-day,  not  very  fast,"  returned  Vroni, 
candidly,  but  with  a  curious,  motherly  indul 
gence  for  the  other's  limitations.  "  How,  in 
deed,  would  that  be  possible?  The  gracious 
comtesse  takes  it  not  amiss ;  I  cannot  lie,  and 
if  I  did,"  she  added  with  a  bright  laugh, 
"  'twould  be  no  use  at  all,  for  the  oven  never 
lies,  and  flour,  meat,  and  vegetables  tell  the 
plain  truth  to  all  the  world,  and  blab  how 
they  've  been  handled." 

"  I  'm  afraid  so,"  acquiesced  Nelka,  dejected 
before  the  stern  incorruptibility  of  inanimate 
objects.  To  none  such  had  she  ever  been  to 
school. 

"  The  gracious  comtesse,"  pursued  Vroni, 
her  hands  deft  and  swift  at  her  work,  "  has  not 
the  light  touch  in  her  fingers." 

Nelka  disconsolately  spread  out  her  long, 
loose  hands  on  the  kitchen  table,  and  looked 
at  them  with  marked  disapprobation. 

"  Nor   does    the    gracious    comtesse    know 


174  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

even  the  names  of  things,  let  alone  what  hap 
pens  when  one  puts  them  together." 

"No,"  gloomily  assented  Nelka;  "but  the 
question  is,  can  I  learn?" 

"  Some  things  can  be  taught,  some  cannot," 
sagely  asserted  the  very  rapidly  "  dawning 
colleague"  of  a  great  man.  "The  hand  can 
not,  nor  the  feeling  about  things,  and  the  eyes 
that  see  when  the  back  is  turned."  In  quite 
unconscious  illustration  she  sprang  up,  ran  to 
her  range,  briskly  adjusted  some  dampers, 
moved  a  saucepan  forward  and  another  back, 
—  all  her  manipulations  rapid  in  the  extreme. 
Returning  to  her  employment  she  remarked 
with  deep  sympathy  the  tragic  hopelessness 
of  the  face  she  had  always  seen  so  radiant 
and  gay. 

"  There  's  a  great  deal  in  a  knack.  Perhaps 
there  is  some  other  sort  of  work  the  gracious 
comtesse  would  have  more  knack  for?" 

"  I  think  not,  Vroni,"  Nelka  answered  quite 
simply  and  humbly. 

"There  are  young  ladies  that  do  the  click- 
click  on  writing  machines  in  windows." 

Nelka  shook  her  head. 

"  And  beautiful  shop-ladies." 

The  comtesse  seemed  no  less  disconsolate. 


Heart's  Dearest 

Vroni  reflected  a  while  with  somewhat  mag 
isterial  seriousness. 

"  AcJi  was  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  The  gracious 
comtesse  shall  learn  the  bisque  whether  or  no. 
I  undertake  it,  parbleu  ! " 

"  Oh,  Vroni !  " 

"  Ha  !  'T  would  be  a  blame  on  us,  I  'm  think 
ing,  if  we  could  not  manage  a  pot  of  soup  !  " 

"Ah,  Vroni!" 

"  And  other  things  I  make  no  doubt,"  the 
girl  declared  somewhat  rashly,  led  on  by  Nelka's 
happy  animation.  "  But  we  '11  begin  next  time 
when  I  can  have  everything  in  readiness." 

Valiant  and  encouraged  as  if  she  had 
already  won  a  medal  in  her  new  pursuits, 
feeling  indeed  quite  thrifty,  diligent,  and  do 
mestic,  the  comtesse  leaned  against  the  wall 
and  smiled  with  sunny  benevolence.  Vroni 
worked  steadily  on. 

"  It  is  pretty  here,"  said  Nelka,  looking  about. 
"  I  had  forgotten  it  was  so  pretty,  —  the  blue 
and  white  tiles  and  your  shining  copper 
things,  and  all."  The  door  was  half  open 
upon  the  veranda  and  the  January  air,  though 
crisp,  was  not  too  chill.  "  Yes,  it  is  very  nice 
and  fresh  and  sweet,  and  polished  as  a  mir 
ror.  T  shall  be  coming  often  now.  You  '11 


ij6  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

get  quite  tired  of  me,  and  I  'm  going  to  learn 
such  a  lot." 

She  gave  a  little  languid  sigh  from  the 
over-exertion  of  so  arduous  a  forecast,  and 
resting  her  head  comfortably  against  the 
wall,  tipped  up  her  pretty  chin  and  stared, 
with  a  dreamy  smile  and  pleasing  but  vague 
anticipations  of  the  future,  at  Vroni's  gradu 
ated  and  imposing  row  of  ladles. 

Vroni,  over  her  prosaic  cleaning,  scraping, 
chipping,  and  cutting,  shot  quick,  adoring 
glances  at  her  guest. 

"  It  takes  rather  long  to  do  things,  does  n't 
it?  "  the  comtesse  remarked  amiably. 

"Well,  they  don't  exactly  do  themselves. 
Salsify  is  a  bit  slow." 

"Vroni,  as  I'm  all  alone  to-day,  you  might 
give  me  my  lunch  here,"  Nelka  proposed  with 
buoyancy,  for  the  idea  savored  of  doing, 
daring,  and  roughing  it. 

Over  a  dainty  tray  and  choice  morsels  to 
her  taste,  and  in  her  glad  spirit  of  adventure, 
she  fairly  laughed  to  think  how  bravely  she 
had  rebelled  and  left  the  Frcgc  lunch-table  in 
the  lurch.  She  would  henceforth  always  act  on 
these  broad  bold  lines.  Besides,  Vroni  was 
lovely,  —  so  quaint. 


Heart's  Dearest  177 

Now  and  again  a  head  peered  into  the 
kitchen  and  withdrew  with  respectful  prompt 
ness. 

"  'T  is  rarely  like  the  cuckoo  in  the  clock," 
Vroni  remarked  demurely,  and  both  the  girls 
laughed  long,  finding  in  each  other's  merry 
eyes  a  well  of  fresh  incentive.  Vroni  worked 
on,  always  in  touch  with  her  fiery  but  dis 
creetly  restrained  steed,  —  quietly  feeling  the 
bit. 

"  Why  do  you  run  over  there  so  much?  " 

"  Because  there  are  different  things  going 
on,  and  each  must  have  its  turn." 

"  How  clever ! "  returned  Nelka,  and  de 
termined  to  note  that,  although  what  it  meant 
she  had  not  the  remotest  conception. 

Of  course  she  and  Eck  would  live  mostly 
at  first  in  hotels,  since  he  would  have  to  take 
long  journeys,  and  could  not  afford  a  large 
establishment.  She  should  not  mind  that  at 
all.  In  fact  she  adored  hotels.  She  should 
not  personally  ever  be  obliged  to  work  of 
course.  But  it  was  just  as  well  to  under 
stand  things,  so  as  to  be  able  to  order  lovely 
dinners  like  Vroni's.  Besides,  she  should 
not  really  mind  working,  Vroni  looked  so 

etty.      How  charming  it  would  be  on  some 

12 


178  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

hunting  expedition  — rather  henvy  dark-green 
cloth,  short  skirt  and  gaiters,  and  a  Tyrolean 
hat  with  cock's  feathers  was  by  far  the  most 
satisfactory  —  but  she  would  have  to  take  a 
lot  of  thin  blouses,  Africa  was  so  warm  —  she 
did  hope  blouses  would  remain  in  vogue  —  to 
surprise  Kck  with  the  white  cap,  and  apron, 
and  an  easy  command  of  sauce-pans.  She 
wished  he  could  see  her  now.  lie  would 
certainly  think  the  cap  becoming.  lie  had 
smiled  so  beautifully  when  she  was  dressed 
as  a  Roumanian  peasant  for  the  Charity 
Bazaar. 

Dear  Kck!  If  he  would  only  write.  Her 
heart  felt  a  little  sore,  yet  warm  and,  ah,  so 
tremulously  kind.  Perhaps  a  letter  was  on 
the  way.  Probably.  Surely.  She  was  so 
much  happier  than  she  had  been  in  many 
days  —  without  doubt,  a  presentiment.  She 
often  felt  something  joyful  must  happen,  and 
it  often  did.  After  the  bisque  she  would 
learn  to  make  an  omelette  surprise,  it  was  so 
delicious  and  amusing  to  find  the  ice  in  the 
shell  of  steaming  hot,  fruity,  creamy  things. 
Eck  last  time  took  two  big  helpings,  and, 
slyly,  a  third.  It  would  be  rather  masterly 
to  produce  that,  say  at  Ugando,  and  turn  with 


Heart's  Dearest  179 

a  smile  to  Eck.      He  could  bring  two  or  three 
nice  men  friends  too.     Dear  Eck ! 

Meanwhile,   Vroni   had   finished    her   task, 
and    set   away    the   vegetables   to    blanch    in 
vinegar.      Next  she  whipped  some  cream,  and 
put   it   aside  to  await   its   proper  place   in  a 
complicated  dish  for  dessert.     Her  movements 
were  swift  and  gentle.     She  passed,  leaving  no 
trace,  not  so  much  as  a  spoon  lying  loose.     A 
trifle  blunt  and  droll  in  her  remarks,  her  smile 
was  warm,  and  her  eyes  glowed  with  delight. 
"How  did  you  learn  it,  Vroni?" 
"The  gracious  comtesse  means  cooking?  " 
"  Yes,  that  too.     But  particularly  your  nice 
quick  ways  of  doing  things  right." 

"  Fine  cookery,  my  master,  at  the  Schloss 
taught  me.  But  how  to  work,"  Vroni  laughed 
brightly.  "  Well,  I  take  it  't  was  my  mother's 
voice.  'T  was  always  after  inc.  Nothing  was 
good  enough  for  it.  Nobody  worked  enough 
to  please  it  —  not  I,  not  my  father,  not  she 
herself. " 

"  Oh,  it  must  have  fatigued  you,  Vroni !  " 
"Nay,   not  so,"  the  girl  said  stoutly.      "It 
did  me  but  good  service.      Only  oft-times  it 
angered  me,  for  I  was  always  a  naughty  thing 
and  wild." 


180  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

With  a  hearty  burst  of  laughter  at  some 
sudden  reminiscence  she  continued:  — 

"It  is  a  high,  clear  voice.  One  hears  it 
far  and  wide.  All  the  animals  know  it  well. 
She  loves  them  so,  and  talks  to  them,  and 
understands  them  as  does  no  other,  I  care  not 
who  he  be.  The  gracious  Comtesse  Nelka 
would  hardly  believe  how  rarely  well  they 
love  her.  Even  the  pigs  had  for  her  other 
fashions." 

"  Pigs !  "  Nelka  made  a  wry  face. 

"  My  mother  says  since  the  Lord  thought 
well  enough  of  them  to  make  them,  they  are 
good  enough  for  her.  She  says,  too,  they  are 
clever,  and  have  their  own  feelings  and  affec 
tions,  and  are  by  a  long  way  not  so  dull  and 
mean  as  some  she  knows.  'T  is  my  mother's 
way  of  speech.  She  '11  go  on  like  that  by  the 
yard.  Truly,  after  she  feeds  and  talks  to 
them,  and  gently  rubs  their  backs,  I  've  seen 
them  play  like  great  kittens,  and  roll  with 
four  feet  wagging  in  the  air  and  seem  to 
laugh,  —  but  only  for  my  mother.  And  the 
cows,  I  could  tell  tales  all  the  long  day  how 
they  are  friendly  with  her,  and  think  none  be 
her  like.  'Twas  of  such  a  thing  I  was  just 
thinking.  'Twas  a  droll  sight,  and  set  me 


Heart's  Dearest  181 

laughing  till  I  wept  tears,  yet  could  not  stop, 
and  why  I  laughed  I  knew  not,  nor  know  now, 
for  't  was  but  a  simple  thing." 

With  a  boyish  gesture,  she  brought  down 
her  fist  against  the  palm  of  her  hand  in  merry 
commemoration. 

"  Gracious  Comtesse  Nelka  will  understand 
'twas  a  fine  sunny  day  in  the  field,  and  my 
mother  and  I  were  raking  and  stacking  the 
hay,  and  my  mother,  as  I  said,  has  a  clear, 
high  voice  and  loud,  and  to  be  heard  every 
where  far  and  near,  and  all  day  long  until  it 
stops  at  night.  'Twas  going  bravely  that 
day  by  the  sunny  weather,  talking  east  and 
talking  west,  and  calling  to  neighbors  all 
over  the  place,  for  all  the  women  were  out, 
and  as  far  as  one  could  see,  were  red  and  blue 
kerchiefs  bobbing  over  the  hay.  And  graz 
ing  in  the  pastures  a  long  distance  off  on  the 
other  side,  were  the  cows  of  the  whole  vil 
lage,  with  the  hired  herdsmen  —  boys  mostly. 
And  our  cow  heard  my  mother's  voice,  and 
sprang  away  across  five  fields  and  three  ditches, 
and  stopped  short  at  my  mother's  side,  and 
stood  stock-still  and  looked  at  her  quite  sensi 
bly  and  neighborly,  as  if  just  waiting  for  her 
to  pass  the  civil  word  about  the  weather. 


1 82  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

When  my  mother  turned,  she  was  amazed, 
and  stared  and  laughed.  Then  she  spoke 
gently :  "  Go  back  again,  thou  saucy  one.  I 
want  thee  not,"  and  gave  the  cow  a  little  slap 
upon  the  shoulder,  and  back  she  went  all  that 
long  way.  But  I  had  such  giggles  that  my 
work  was  naught,  and  my  mother  chid  two 
hours  on  the  stretch,  and  till  I  die  I  think  1 
must  ever  laugh  when  I  remember  me  of  that 
cow's  face." 

"  How  lovely  the  life  must  be  there!"  said 
Nelka  with  enthusiasm,  recalling  pastoral 
effects  at  the  theatre,  Alartlia  and  L  Ami 
Fritz. 

"Truly,"  Vroni  assented  with  a  warm  home 
feeling.  "  'T  was  our  little  brindle,"  she 
added,  after  a  moment.  "  To  be  sure  she  had 
good  reason  to  like  my  mother,  who  once 
saved  her  life,  when  she  was  in  a  sore  strait 
by  her  first  calving.  No  other  care  except 
my  mother's  could  have  pulled  her  into 
shape  —  but  after  that  she  was  a  thrifty 
bearer. " 

"Indeed,"  remarked  the  little  comtesse, 
astonished  but  very  polite,  after  which  she- 
was  silent  for  a  while. 

"  It  was  not    too  hard  work  in  the  fields, 


Heart's  Dearest  183 

Vroni?  Too  rough?  Did  it  not  tire  your 
back  ?  " 

"  Oh,  if  it  's  not  one  sort  of  work,  it  's  just 
another,"  Vroni  returned,  with  cheerful  phi 
losophy;  "but,  Gottlob,  'tis  never  one  sort, 
and  no  change.  Of  course,  our  kind  must 
work.  Why,  I  suppose,  did  we  not  work, 
we  'd  starve,  although  I  never  thought  of  that 
before.  Comtesse  sees  we  know  no  other  sort 
of  life.  To  our  kind  life  is  work.  I  cannot 
think  how  it  would  feel,  always  to  make  holi 
day.  '  T  would  not  much  please  me  for  sure. 
Field-work  I  always  liked.  Of  aching  backs, 
I  know  naught,  but  not  a  little  of  aching 
heads.  Surely  't  is  less  hard  than  that  dark 
factory,  that  looks  as  if  it  must  have  foul 
smells.  I  am  at  home  where  great  winds 
blow.  I  could  not  live  cooped  up  or  lolling 
either,  if  the  gracious  Comtesse  Nelka  takes 
it  not  amiss." 

With  a  certain  breezy  strength  she  swung 
a  heavy  kettle  off  her  range,  and  over  to  a 
corner  from  whence,  stooping  amid  steam  and 
meat  fumes,  she  remarked  blithely:  — 

"  But  't  is  a  pity  all  have  not  my  tidy  work. 
Mine  is  the  prettiest  for  sure,"  and  flung  the 
veranda  door  further  open. 


184  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

Nelka,  becoming  curiously  thoughtful, 
watched  her  quietly,  admiring  her  pretty 
and  sure  motions,  but  wondering  most  at 
her  systematic  forethought,  for  she  seemed 
to  be  working  far  ahead,  crushing  roasted 
breadcrumbs,  and  storing  them  in  a  glass  jar 
for  something  or  other  on  the  day  after  the 
morrow,  and  impending  oysters  of  the  next 
week;  and  while  doing  each  task  so  com 
pletely,  performed  many  a  neat  little  inter 
mezzo,  and  ever  and  anon  the  expert  solo  on 
the  dampers  of  that  big  range,  which  looked 
as  complicated  as  a  locomotive. 

u  I  never  dreamed  there  was  so  much  head- 
work  in  it,"  sighed  Nclka. 

"What  then?  Heel-work?"  asked  Vroni, 
flippantly,  but  waited  for  no  answer,  as  she 
had  already  fetched  from  her  store-room  a 
couple  of  handsomely  browned  roast  ducks, 
and  with  a  fine  blade  began  most  skilfully 
to  carve  them.  While  doing  this  exquisite 
work,  she  had  the  habit  of  silence.  Carving 
was  a  branch  of  her  art  Gireaud  had  taught 
her  to  regard  with  profound  respect,  if  not 
with  veneration.  Nelka,  deeply  absorbed, 
followed  every  turn  of  the  clever  wrist,  every 
incision  and  clean  stroke  of  the  steel. 


Heart's  Dearest  185 

"It 's  wonderful!"  at  length  exclaimed  the 
comtesse. 

"  'T  is  tidy, "  returned  Vroni,  frankly  pleased. 
" 'T  is  my  master's  own  way.  None  other 
has  it,  save  myself." 

Smiling  a  little  roguishly,  having  laid  the 
bird  open,  she  now  proceeded  largely  to  re 
create  him,  until  a  careless  eye  would  hardly 
perceive  the  dissecting  lines.  Dexterously 
binding  his  disintegration  with  coquettish 
pink  ribbons,  she  packed  him  in  a  hamper, 
and  turned  her  attention  to  his  brother,  whom 
she  likewise  unmade  and  re-made  artistically. 

"Well!"  gasped  Nelka. 

"They  and  these  other  things  are  for  Count 
Benno,"  prattled  Vroni.  "A  cosy  supper  for 
two  was  my  order,"  she  added  innocently,  at 
which  Nelka,  her  eyelids  drooping,  faintly 
smiled.  "I  can  venture  to  send  the  birds 
carved,  because  the  white  Tiber  is  coming 
himself  for  them,  and  will  hold  them  with 
steady  hands.  He  's  a  queer,  shy  lad,  white 
Tiber,  but  good  to  dogs  and  willing,  and  can 
be  trusted  with  my  ducks.  Ha!  'tis  not  by 
all  men  folk  I  'd  send  them." 

Filling  a  small  jar  with  a  currant-red  con 
coction,  one  of  the  small  battalion  she  for  an 


I  86  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

hour  past  had  been  guiding  simultaneously 
toward  perfection,  she  fitted  it  in  a  snug  cor 
ner  of  the  hamper,  in  which  had  disappeared 
a  dish  of  celery  salad,  and  sundry  small  and 
eligible  concomitants,  and  explained:  — 

"  'T  is  the  Hubertus-Sauce  Count  Benno 
likes  so  well.  He  told  white  Tiber  to  tell 
me  it  was  pJic-nom-c-nal 7  A  stout  word  that. 
I  doubt  I  say  it  rightly." 

"  What  a  bright  boy  Benno  is,  to  levy  on 
our  kitchen.  He  always  knew  how  to  help 
himself  to  sweets,"  Nelka  was  considering, 
together  with  some  other  of  Benno' s  idiosyn 
crasies  and  vagaries,  when  Vroni  said  simply 
and  serenely :  — 

"  Now,  if  my  gracious  Comtesse  Nelka 
takes  it  not  amiss,  I  want  my  kitchen." 

The  comtesse  stared,  surprised,  and  smiled. 

"  You  actually  mean  to  put  me  out  ? " 

"  'T  is  like  this,"  Vroni  explained,  in  the 
placid  strength  of  her  position.  "As  Com 
tesse  Nelka  knows,  I  have  been  doing  but  odds 
and  ends  of  no  account."  Nelka's  face  ex 
pressed  blank  amazement.  "Now,  it  is  time 
for  work.  My  dinner  needs  my  thoughts. 
Soon  the  other  servants  will  be  coming  in. 
Besides,  I  am  composing  the  menus  for  two 


Heart's  Dearest  187 

company  dinners,  which  I  ought  to  submit 
to-morrow  to  the  gracious  countess.  A  cook 
must  now  and  then  be  alone  with  her  own 
thoughts." 

That  one  moment,  could  Gireaud  have 
heard  her  tone,  so  convincing 'in  its  gentle 
dignity,  —  he  who  often  enough  was  on  the 
point  of  tearing  his  hair  because  of  her 
obtuseness,  —  it  would  have  outweighed  all 
his  sufferings. 

"I  will  go,  Vroni.  But  I  shall  come  again 
very  soon.  It  is  the  nicest  place  in  the 
house,  and  next  time  I  shall  learn  a  lot." 

Vroni  held  the  door  open  for  her. 

"  I  've  liked  it  rarely  well  to  have  the  gra 
cious  Comtesse  Nelka  so  long  with  me  in  my 
kitchen,"  she  said  slowly,  in  the  soft  tones 
she  had  for  few.  Her  eyes  were  loving. 

"  You  are  such  a  nice  girl,  Vroni.  Such  a 
dear,"  Nelka  returned,  her  hand  extended. 

Vroni  stooped  quickly  and  kissed  it. 

"Next  time,  Vroni!" 

"Next  time,  gracious  comtesse. " 

That  evening  the  Vallades  were,  excep 
tionally,  at  home  and  without  guests.  The 
countess  after  dinner  wrote  numerous  little 
notes  at  her  little  table,  and  six  pages  richly 


1 88  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

underlined  to  Benno.  The  count  sat  in  his 
study  at  the  moment  Nelka  hovered  upon  the 
threshold,  not  writing  but  motionless,  his 
head  on  his  hand. 

"May  I  come,  papa?" 

"Certainly,  my  darling." 

As  he  looked  up,  his  weary  face  changed, 
for  he  loved  his  fair  girl  dearly,  although  he 
had  never  taken  time  to  occupy  himself  much 
with  her,  nor  did  he  in  point  of  fact  know  her 
very  well.  He  perceived  neither  her  weak 
nesses  nor  her  dormant  strength.  He  took 
his  children's  characters  for  granted  in  a 
sketchy  way,  and  felt  personally  injured  when 
they  disproved  the  accuracy  of  his  optimistic 
preconceptions. 

His  sons  had  given  his  theories  sundry 
rude  shocks,  but,  after  each  percussion,  he 
reassumed  approximately  his  original  position. 
His  daughters  had  never  deranged  him. 

"What  is  it,  Nelka?  "  he  asked  indulgently, 
half  seating  himself  on  a  corner  of  his  table, 
and  throwing  his  arm  round  her. 

She  nestled  in  silence  against  him. 

"  It  must  be  something  very  large.  A 
frock?  A  necklace?  Out  with  it,"  for  in 
spite  of  ebb-tide  in  his  fortunes,  he  usually 


Heart's  Dearest  189 

tried  to  arrange  matters  to  please  the 
child. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"It  is  not  things." 

"What  then?" 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  good  for  much,  papa?  " 

He  laughed  incredulously. 

"  You  ?     Rather  !     I  should  say  so. " 

"What  am  I  good  for?" 

"  Good  for  the  eyes,  and  still  better  for  the 
heart." 

He  waited  an  instant,  but  as  she  did  not 
speak,  went  on  pleasantly:  — 

"Very  good  to  laugh  with,  and  at  this 
moment  good  to  laugh  at  if  you  are  trying 
to  have  the  blues  —  a  role  quite  foreign  to 
your  character,"  giving  her  back  a  series  of 
encouraging  pats. 

Still  she  was  silent. 

"Good  to  love  and  be  proud  of,"  he  went 
on  with  real  tenderness.  "My  dear  little 
daughter,  my  joy  and  blessing,  the  very  flower 
of  my  home." 

Moving  slightly  she  faced  him  wistfully. 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  Is  it  not  enough  ?  Are  you  not  glad  to  be 
your  father's  comfort?  " 


190  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"  Of  course,  papa,  but  — 

Now  Count  Vallade's  thoughts  were  occu 
pied  with  really  serious  matters.  Even  as  he 
spoke,  he  was  broadly  sketching  a  paper  ho 
was  about  to  draw  up,  in  which  he  must  vindi 
cate  and  gratify  the  Government,  conciliate 
the  respectable  Opposition,  enrage  no  farther 
the  rabid  Socialists,  and  win  over  if  possi 
ble  the  Clerical  party,  —  in  short,  sit  blandly 
astride  the  thorny  diplomatic  hedge.  This 
somewhat  lacerating  position  was  his  speci 
alty. 

It  is,  therefore,  a  proof  of  his  kindness  and 
affection,  that  he  had  so  much  patience  with 
his  pet's  childishness.  lie  would  indeed 
rather  sec  her  smile. 

Believing  that  he  read  the  cogitations  of 
the  dear  head  upon  his  shoulder,  he  went 
on :  — 

"And  later,  though  I  hardly  dare  to  think 
how  I  shall  miss  you,  you  will  be  some  other 
man's  blessing." 

"His  flower?"  murmured  the  girl  to  her 
father's  coat  collar. 

This  curious  observation,  the  count  was  not 
certain  how  to  interpret,  but  he  repeated  with 
emphasis :  — 


Heart's  Dearest  191 

"His  flower!  The  fair  flower  he  will 
proudly  wear  upon  his  breast." 

"  A  sort  of  buttonhole  bouquet,"  commented 
the  muffled  voice. 

He  smiled,  slightly  surprised. 

"  Has  my  baby  grown  cynical  ?  You  should 
not  pour  cold  water  on  your  old  father's 
fancies.  At  all  events  it  will  be  a  lucky  fel 
low  that  will  get  you.  You  will  be  his  — 

"Sunshine,"  she  suggested,  almost  inaudi- 
bly. 

"Well,  what  else,  in  a  man's  stern  life,  is 
a  lovely  girl,  a  sweet  young  wife,  but  pure 
sunshine?  In  her  presence  he  lays  aside  his 
professional  cares.  The  mere  sight  of  her 
rests  him,  amuses,  cheers,  and  entertains 
him." 

"His  kitten." 

"  Oh,  come,  Nelka !  "  he  remonstrated  good- 
humoredly,  "what  is  the  meaning  of  this? 
How  am  I  to  please  you  ?  A  woman  softens, 
enriches,  warms,  and  embellishes  a  man's 
destiny." 

"His  fur  coat,"  muttered  the  stifled  voice. 

"Yet  she  is  something  far  above  him  — 
something  to  be  kept  stainless,  untouched  by 
the  world's  dust  and  mire." 


192  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"The  cornice,"  she  remarked,  gazing  at  the 
ceiling. 

"  Rogue ! " 

But  he  saw  her  lashes  were  wet.  What  a 
sweet  child  she  was!  Not  a  line  on  her  fair 
face,  peachy  like  the  painting  done  when 
she  was  six  years  old. 

"You  are  tired,  dear,"  he  said  solicitously. 
"I  think  you  'd  better  go  to  bed.  Besides,  I 
have  some  rather  trying  work  to  think  about. 
Come  to  me  again  very  soon.  Next  time 
we  '11  have  a  good  talk,  and  you  shall  tell  me 
what  sort  of  proclamations  you  are  getting  up 
in  that  little  head." 

"Yes,  papa.     Next  time. " 

He  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Good-night,  my  pet.  Be  happy,  and  amuse 
yourself.  Leave  care  to  me. " 

He  sighed,  and  his  handsome  pale  face 
clouded  as  he  turned  to  his  desk.  He  ran  his 
hand  abruptly  through  his  iron-gray  hair. 

She  stood  an  instant  irresolute,  in  her  heart 
a  dim  swarm  of  nameless  thoughts  and  desires 
struggling  to  shape  themselves. 

"If  I  might  help  you  to  bear  it!"  she 
exclaimed  fervently. 

"Ah!"  he  returned,  not  without  a  trace  of 


Heart's  Dearest 

impatience,  "  how  is  that  possible !  Let  us 
be  rational,  my  dear."  Then,  gently,  for  in 
her  limpid  eyes  was  grief:  "Be  sure  your 
father  loves  you,  Nelka." 

"I  know." 

"  And  if  you  would  help  me,  be  your  bright 
fresh  self.  Let  me  feel  that  when  I  return 
home  from  all  sorts  of  storms  and  agitations, 
you  are  waiting  placid,  smooth-browed,  always 
the  same." 

"The  mantel-shelf,"  she  said,  but  this  time 
to  herself. 

She  stood  presently  by  her  mother. 

"Good-night,  mamma." 

The  countess  also  smiled  affectionately  as 
she  glanced  up.  She  too  looked  tired  and 
worn. 

"Good-night,  my  love." 

"  Could  n't  we  go  into  the  country  ?  " 

"What,  in  the  middle  of  the  winter?  " 

"No,  but  some  time." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  child.  Is 
not  Waldmohr  country  —  and  Switzerland?" 

Nelka  lingered. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  mamma  —  help 
you  in  any  way?  " 

"Thanks,  no  dear,"  the  lady  returnod,  a 
13 


194  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

little  absently.  "  Nelka, "  she  said  with  sudden 
scrutiny,  "aren't  you  a  trifle  pale  for  you? 
Yours  happily  is  not  the  sort  of  skin  that 
goes  off  early,  still  the  nights  we  are  not  on 
duty  I  'd  get  a  couple  of  hours  extra  sleep  if  I 
were  you.  And  use  a  little  of  that  last  prepa 
ration  of  lanoline.  I  find  it  softening." 


Heart's  Dearest  195 


X 


THE  broad  path  winding  up  the  slope  of  the 
little  park  sparkled  with  new-fallen  snow  in 
strong  sunshine,  and  the  trees  were  white. 
Vroni,  returning  from  early  Mass,  walked 
briskly  and  for  entertainment  crunched  as  loud 
as  possible  with  her  stout  shoes. 

"  In  Hexenfels  we  have  no  such  fine  paths," 
she  reflected  admiringly.  "  The  town  gets  up 
bright  and  early,  like  a  tidy  maid.  The  plough 
had  already  been  here  as  I  went  down.  Now 
I  wonder  who  sees  to  all  the  sweeping  of  the 
snow." 

Musing  thus  innocently  upon  the  mysteries  of 
municipal  housekeeping,  she  was  not  unmind 
ful  that  a  person  she  once  casually  but  perti 
nently  met  had  knelt  beside  her  and  stood 
at  the  church  porch  and  stared  as  she  came 
out. 

"  A  rude  fellow  with  shiny  eyes,"  she  calmly 
labelled  him.  "'T  is  the  same  man.  I  remem- 


196  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

her  me  I  did  give  him  a  good  whack.  Ha ! 
Were  it  not  just  now  in  Holy  Church,  'twould 
have  gladdened  me  to  serve  the  other  car  as 
neatly,  for  truly  't  is  ill-mannered  to  take  more 
than  one's  share  of  kneeling  place,  and  jostle 
elbows  when  there's  room  for  all  to  pray  to 
God  in  peace." 

In  hearty  and  jocund  fashion  she  was  de 
voted  to  her  Church.  Not  troubling  her  head 
to  meditate  upon  ulterior  meanings,  she  loved 
with  joyful  and  childlike  loyalty  its  prayers, 
ceremonies,  and  symbols,  its  rich  atmosphere, 
and  most  ardently  its  music.  When  she  left 
her  village  for  the  second  time,  she  had  begged 
for  the  tarnished  gilt  Heart  pierced  with  seven 
spears, —  an  emblem  which  all  her  life  had 
hung  on  the  kitchen  wall.  Dionysius  pro 
posed  she  should  rather  take  a  little  waxen 
lamb  bearing  the  banner  of  the  Cross,  or  even 
buy  herself  a  fine  new  blue-and-white  Virgin 
in  the  town.  But  Vroni  insisted  upon  having 
the  bleeding  Heart  and  the  red  rosary  of  imita 
tion  coral  beads  that  hung  below  it.  She  said 
wherever  she  went  they  would  always  look 
cheerful  and  homelike. 

A  step  came  crunching  behind  her,  a  longer, 
faster  step  than  hers.  She  turned  involuntarily 


Heart's  Dearest  197 

and  saw  the  piano-man,  before  she  remembered 
her  father  had  warned  her  an  honest  maid  in 
town  carries  her  head  straight.  Now  in  Hex1 
enfels  it  would  have  been  considered  unsocial 
if  not  proud  had  one  not  looked  back  and 
passed  at  least  a  good-morning  where  two 
were  treading  the  self-same  path.  Slightly 
vexed  that  she  had  recalled  his  injunction  too 
late,  she  hastened  her  pace,  but  the  man's 
stride  gained  on  her. 

Presently  Vincenz  Berg  joined  her  and  po 
litely  took  off  his  hat. 

She  gave  him  one  indignant  glance,  and 
trudged  on  sturdily. 

"  It  is  a  pleasant  morning,"  he  remarked  affa 
ble  as  any  fine  gentleman,  and  flourished  a 
handkerchief  with  a  red  border  like  Count 
Benno's.  The  man  she  saw  looked  not  un 
like  Count  Benno, —  pointed  moustache,  clean 
cheeks,  shiny  bold  eyes,  and  all. 

Vincenz  wore  a  quiet-colored  overcoat  as 
long  as  Count  Vallade's,  and  was  a  good-look 
ing  fellow  with  an  agreeable  voice,  a  ready 
smile,  and  exceedingly  smooth  manners.  The 
latter  were  in  part  a  natural  gift,  in  part  ac 
quired  in  the  service  of  an  ambassador  whom 
Berg,  some  years  previous,  had  accompanied 


198  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

as  valet  to  St.  Petersburg,  Athens,  and  other 
distant  points,  thereby  effectually  seeing  the 
world,  and  enjoying  a  life  of  elegant  idleness. 
Neither  the  one  nor  the  other  happened  to  be 
a  specially  spiritualizing  process,  and  the  com 
bination  proved  devastating  to  his  facile  prin 
ciples.  He  was  however  bright,  brisk,  and 
good-humored  enough,  an  able  workman, 
drawing  and  spending  good  pay,  a  favorite 
with  his  mates,  jovial  and  prompt  at  his  beer. 

Vroni  saw  no  cross  path  in  which  she  could 
quickly  spring  aside.  High  snowy  shrubbery 
bordered  the  way.  Turning  back  would  do 
no  good.  She  was  averse  to  taking  to  her 
heels  as  if  she  were  afraid.  There  seemed 
nothing  to  do  but  to  go  on.  Glowing  from 
the  crisp  air  and  inward  irritation,  her  eyes 
stormy,  she  walked  with  a  rapid,  resolute  step 
and  looked  straight  before  her. 

Vincenz,  smiling,  greatly  admiring  her, 
twirled  his  moustache. 

"  It 's  a  very  good  path  through  the  snow," 
he  said  harmlessly  like  an  old  acquain 
tance. 

"'Tis  not  wide  enough  for  two,"  retorted 
Vroni,  fiercely. 

"Oh  ho!"    laughed  to  himself  the  young 


Heart's  Dearest  199 

man  of  large  experience.  "  So  this  is  the 
kind  we  are." 

"  I  have  seen  you  so  long  and  often  now," 
he  went  on  simply  and  pleasantly,  "  on  your 
veranda,  and  coming  and  going,  and  at  church, 
that  I  feel  I  know  you  by  this  time." 

"  But  you  don't,"  she  flung  at  him  with  a 
scowl. 

"  Well,  I  want  to  awfully,  and  there 's  no 
harm  in  that  I  hope,"  he  returned  with  a 
laugh.  "  I  'm  sure  I  'm  doing  my  best.  My 
name  is  Vincenz  Berg." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  squarely,  in 
spite  of  herself  perceived  his  youthful  pleasant 
ness,  and  was  vaguely  startled  that  something 
within  her  was  pleading  for  him,  while  some 
thing  else  distinctly  resented  his  smiling  inso 
lence.  At  the  Schloss  were  men  more  or  less 
of  his  sort,  she  remembered,  and  how  Armand 
Gireaud  used  to  draw  up  his  face  in  ineffable 
grimaces  and  witheringly  pronounce  the  band 
jackanapes. 

"  I  know  you  not,"  she  said  grimly,  "  nor 
do  I  want  to  know  a  staring  man,  and  a  jost 
ling  man,  and  a  man  that  follows  honest  maids 
from  Holy  Church,  and  a  jackanapes  and," 
waxing  still  stronger  with  the  vigorous  sound 


2oo  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

of  her  own  voice,  "  you  can  go  back  or  you 
can  go  on,  for  I  '11  trudge  no  further  with  the 
like  of  you,  as  if  we  two  belonged  together. 
Ha !  "  and  she  stopped  short. 

"  We  do  belong  together,"  he  returned 
softly,  wholly  unperturbed  by  her  oration. 
"  As  to  staring,  when  I  see  anything  as  pretty 
as  you,  I  have  to  look,  don't  I?  Would  you 
have  me  shut  my  eyes  ?  And  I  'm  not  follow 
ing  you  home  from  church.  I  happen  to  be 
going  the  same  way,  that  is  all.  That 's  not 
my  fault,  I  suppose.  How  can  you  be  so  hard 
on  a  fellow?  " 

His  bold  gaze  rested  insistently  upon  her. 
He  was  already  what  he  called  in  love. 

"  Saprelotte  !  "  muttered  Vroni,  her  breath 
ing  quick,  her  nostrils  dilating.  She  looked 
helplessly  about  her  for  a  weapon.  A  stout 
broomstick  would  have  suited  her  mood. 

"  Well,  I  '11  leave  you  the  whole  path,  then, 
if  I  must." 

"  Go !  "  she  exclaimed,  and  stamped  her 
foot. 

He  took  off  his  hat  with  an  air  of  quiet  and 
concentrated  devotion,  a  trick  he  had  caught 
from  His  Excellency,  and  strode  on.  She 
watched  the  tall  lithe  figure  climb  the  path. 


Heart's  Dearest  201 

At  some  distance,  before  passing  out  of 
sight  behind  a  group  of  Norway  pines,  he 
turned,  dark  against  the  snow,  and  swung  his 
hat. 

"  'T  is  a  jackanapes,"  she  muttered,  "  and 
like  his  impudence  to  make  a  soft  voice  at  me 
and  say,  '  We  two  belong  together.'  ' 

It  seemed  to  her  truly  astounding  that  from 
that  day  she  hardly  moved  without  meeting 
Vincenz  Berg.  Busy  upon  her  veranda,  she 
would  assume  unconsciousness  of  his  confront 
ing  windows,  but  a  subtle  telepathy  conveyed 
his  ardent  messages,  and  she  would  frown 
defiantly  while  setting  milk  jugs  airing  in  the 
sun.  Coming  from  market  or  from  church, 
she  could  almost  count  upon  him  to  cross  her 
path,  look  intently  in  her  eyes,  take  off  his 
hat  respectfully,  and  disappear  round  some 
corner.  Gradually  she  became  so  accustomed 
to  his  manoeuvres  that  when  by  chance  he 
failed  to  appear,  in  her  wonderment  was  an 
infinitesimal  and  wholly  indefinable  sense  of 
loss. 

"  The  jackanapes,  't  is  time  in  truth,  he 
should  repent  him  of  his  crackbrained  swoop- 
ings,"  she  would  then  reflect,  her  quick 
exhaustive  glance  scanning  each  nook  and 


202  Dlonysius  the  Weaver's 

passage  where  the  monster  had  ever  darted 
out.  She  cherished  the  artless  delusion  that 
her  demeanor  to  him  was  uncompromisingly 
austere,  and  never  suspected  the  gleam  of 
merriment  her  eyes  sent  forth,  or  how  invit 
ingly  her  color  came  and  went.  For  though 
it  was  "  a  blame  "  to  him,  and,  she  honestly 
believed,  to  her  at  first  pure  vexation,  when 
she  found  he  spoke  no  more,  nor  even 
followed  her,  but  merely  dashed  out  a  door 
way  or  round  a  corner,  never  twice  from  the 
same  ambush,  his  evolutions  began  to  afford 
her  no  small  degree  of  excitement  and  in 
terest.  The  complete  uncertainty  of  his  move 
ments  lent  to  them  in  her  childlike  mind  the 
zest  of  a  merry  game.  Once,  indeed,  she  al 
most  smiled  back  at  his  now  familiar  face 
peeping  over  the  ample  shoulder  of  her  own 
butter  woman  at  market,  but  frowned  per 
functorily  and  looked  the  other  way. 

Berg's  conspicuously  romantic  behavior  be 
gan  not  unnaturally  to  awaken  facetious  com 
ment  in  Vroni's  immediate  circle,  where  indeed 
love  affairs,  open  or  surreptitious,  were  topics 
no  less  absorbing  than  on  higher  planes. 
"  Vroni's  sweetheart  "  they  dubbed  him,  while 
he  but  hovered  upon  the  horizon.  Everybody 


Heart's  Dearest  203 

possessed,  she  had  already  discoved,  a  past, 
present,  or  potential  sweetheart.  Beside  the 
servants'  affairs  of  the  heart,  those  of  the 
Comtesse  Nelka  and  the  Vallade  brothers 
were  exhaustively  discussed  in  her  presence ; 
and  not  without  discriminating  intelligence. 
Never  having  read  a  novel,  Vroni  made  her 
own  fresh  discoveries  of  trite  facts  in  the  vast 
field  which  she  was  beginning  to  perceive 
encompassed  her  on  every  side. 

"  Thou,  Melchior,  what  thinkest  thou  of 
love?"  she  began  blithely  on  a  Sunday,  as 
the  three  sat  at  their  four  o'clock  beer,  not  as 
usual  in  a  suburban  tavern,  but  in  his  house; 
for  he  was  nursing  a  cold,  together  with  the 
aggrieved  notion  that  immunity  from  vulgar 
physical  ills  ought,  were  things  properly 
managed,  to  be  one  of  the  perquisites  of  his 
position. 

He  assumed  a  graver  aspect  preparatory  to 
utterances  of  weight. 

"  'T  is  rubbish  mostly,"  quoth  Jakobine. 

"  But  they  are  all  at  it,"  laughed  Vroni, 
"  though  fairly  criss-cross  and  awry.  Du  licbcr 
Gott,  't  is  an  odd  distemper !  I  'm  glad  I  never 
caught  it.  Sccst,  Melchior,  they  that  would 
marry  have  no  money,  and,  should  they  wed, 


204  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

they  'd  lose  their  situations.  I  ask  thec,  is 
that  fair  dealing?  And  there  be  sonic  love 
sick  with  some  that  sigh  for  some  that  look 
toward  others.  Truly  I  cannot  think  how  that 
would  feel  —  may  be  't  is  like  a  pinching  shoe. 
Then,  Melchior,  so  thou  be  good  with  one 
most  nice  and  pleasant-spoken,  and  kind  to 
men  and  maids,  and  strong  and  comely  too, 
with  a  high  head  and  clear  eyes,  thy  father 
and  thy  mother  bid  thee  wed  a  grisly  one 
with  gold,  and  though  thou  canst  abide  him  not 
at  all— 'tis  most  curious!  — art  thou  a  most 
gracious  lady,  canst  do  naught  to  help  thyself. 
Then  there  are  other  most  strange  things  and 
hard  to  understand.  The  HcrrscJiaft  are  all  for 
getting  married.  T  is  the  main  thing,  it  seems, 
for  gentlefolks,  and  there  's  much  talk  and  fuss 
till  all  the  gracious  lads  and  maids  be  joined 
unto  their  gracious  mates.  The  ladies'  sweet 
hearts  come  with  top  hats  on,  bold  as  thou 
willst,  in  broad  daylight.  But  Franziska  Brandt 
must  ever  slip  out  slyly,  when  all  the  gracious 
HcrrscJiaft  are  at  dinner,  and  meet  him  by  the 
fountain  or  in  the  garden  corner  of  the  court 
where  't  is  pitch  darkest.  And  one  of  the  first 
things  they  ever  ask  of  thee  is,  '  No  followers, 
eh?'  in  a  quite  awful  voice." 


Heart's  Dearest  205 

"Art  making  progress,  Vroni,"  sneered 
Jakobine. 

"  'T  is  time  I  learned  somewhat,"  the  girl 
replied  serenely.  "  I  must  ofttimes  smile  when 
I  remember  me  how  I  was  ignorant  of  things, 
and  not  so  very  long  ago." 

"  'T  is  plain  enough  whither  thy  thoughts 
are  flying  fast." 

"  Hast  not  a  sweetheart,  Vroni?  "  anxiously 
demanded  Melchior.  "  Art  not  doing  us  that 
ill  turn?" 

"  Nay,  nay,  not  I !  "  but  she  colored  with  a 
slight  sense  of  guilt,  for  the  ubiquitous  Vincenz 
had  followed  her  to  her  brother's  threshold. 

"  Then  talk  not  thus,"  Melchior  remonstrated. 

"How  so,  brother?" 

"  So  bold  and  pert,"  suggested  Jakobine. 

"  So  social  democratic,"  warned  the  king's 
coachman.  "  I  cannot  listen  to  such  talk. 
Our  Club  cannot  abide  it.  We  are  all  respect 
able  and  very  prudent  men." 

"  I  doubt  it  not,  but  what,  pray,  has  thy 
great  virtue  to  do  with  me?" 

"  Thy  ways  and  tone  are  free,  and  please 
me  not,"  he  continued  with  a  disgusted  air. 
"  Dost  begin  by  finding  fault  with  thy  supe 
riors,  willst  end  by  siding  with  that  low  and 


206  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

crazy  lot.  Woulclst  surely  lose  thy  situation  — • 
which  would  reflect  on  me." 

Vroni  stared,  and  broke  into  a  hearty  laugh. 

"  Nay,  Melchior,  nay.  'T  was  not  ill  meant. 
I  found  no  fault.  I  but  idly  spoke  of  things 
I  see  with  my  own  eyes  and  hear  with  my  own 
ears,  and  that  give  me  pains  to  fit  together  in 
my  mind,  seeing  they  be  misfits." 

"  I  could  wish  thou  'dst  ever  think  of  my 
position,"  he  returned  sulkily. 

"Ac/i  was!"  she  cried  impatiently,  "dost 
think  thou  holdest  up  the  whole  palace  !  Had 
I  a  dozen  sweethearts,  where  were  the  wrong 
to  thee  ?  " 

He  frowned,  puzzled,  and  comprehending 
not  at  all.  Jakobine  indulged  in  a  chapter 
of  gloomy  prophecies  upon  the  doom  of  the 
light-minded.  Vroni,  having  only  them, 
promptly  regained  her  temper,  and  did  her 
best  to  re-establish  peace.  With  sunny 
smiles  she  told  tales  which  coaxed  reluctant 
twitches  from  even  Jakobine's  grim  lips ;  re 
called  home  scenes  to  Melchior  until  he  had 
simple  and  human  intervals ;  proposed  to 
trim  a  hat  for  her  sister-in-law,  who  accepted, 
remarking  that  she,  Gottlob,  had  no  talent  for 
vanities ;  agreed  to  knit  a  woollen  waistcoat 


Heart's  Dearest  207 

for  her  brother,  —  'twas  a  new  thick  stitch  she 
said,  that  kept  one  warm ;  and  left  them  not 
indeed  approving,  but  half  mollified  by  her 
innocent  wiles.  Yet  it  was  uphill  work  she 
felt,  as  she  turned  from  their  door. 

Jakobine  had  not  asked  her  to  stay.  Jacko- 
bine  never  asked  her  to  stay  or  to  come  again. 
Jakobine  was  as  frosty  to-day  as  in  the  hour 
they  met,  and  Melchior  was  putty  in  her 
hands.  Vroni  on  her  way  to  market  had  oc 
casionally  gone  straight  to  his  stables.  There 
among  his  horses  he  seemed  quite  a  different 
man,  so  able  and  so  kind  —  not  a  bit  respect 
able  ;  but  Jakobine  was  furious  when  she  found 
it  out,  —  it  was  indeed  no  secret,  —  and  Mel 
chior  asked  Vroni  not  to  come  again,  unless 
for  something  urgent  and  unavoidable,  he 
added  feebly.  He  had  enjoyed  her  cheery 
little  visits,  and  the  men  were  jollier  with  him 
on  the  days  they  spied  the  white  apron  and 
brown  basket.  Vroni  nodded  brightly  right 
and  left  since,  they  were  all  fellow-workmen 
of  her  brother,  and  it  was  evident  to  him  she 
made  a  good  impression,  for  even  the  head- 
coachman  spoke  of  her  friendly  manners  and 
offered  him  a  glass  of  beer.  But  it  was  no 
use  to  oppose  Jakobine.  So  now  they  never 


208  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

met  except  in  her  intimidating  presence. 
Sometimes  they  telephoned ;  Melchior  was 
very  nice  by  telephone.  It  always  gave  her 
a  glad  surprise  to  hear  the  home  voice  speak 
ing  from  the  wall. 

"  Melchior  was  not  to  blame  for  his  cold," 
she  reasoned,  as  she  reluctantly  walked  home, 
still  it  was  not  quite  the  very  worst  cold  that 
ever  was  in  the  world.  Had  he  the  spirit 
to  take  a  brisk  walk  over  the  hills,  say  to  the 
Hunter's  Horn,  it  would  surely  do  him  good. 
Ah,  the  people  looked  so  happy,  and  the 
music  was  so  gay,  yet  sometimes  soft  and  sad, 
and  they  sang  songs  that  made  your  heart 
beat  and  little  shivers  run  down  your  back. 
How  wonderful  to  hear  that  men's  chorus 
hushing  itself  in  one  great,  soft,  long,  sweet 
sound.  It  was  heaven.  When  they  stopped, 
the  whole  crowd  was  still  as  stone,  and  drew 
its  breath  before  it  again  began  to  chatter  and 
jingle  glasses. 

It  was  not  happy  to  come  out  for  one's 
Sunday,  and  turn  one's  self  about  and  march 
home  again.  Probably  she  was  the  only  maid 
in  the  whole  town  who  was  having  no  pleasure. 
In  fact,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  this  deplor 
able  circumstance.  Of  what  use  was  it  for 


Heart's  Dearest  209 

Mclchior  to  muffle  himself  up  as  if  he  were  his 
own  grandmother,  and  sit  huddled  over  the 
fire,  when  he  would  have  to  be  on  duty  in  the 
morning,  as  well  as  go  once  to  the  stables  that 
very  night?  Jakobine  probably  did  it  all  on 
purpose.  She  knew  Vroni  longed  to  go  to 
the  Hunter's  Horn  and  hear  those  men  sing. 
If  ever  she  expressed  a  special  wish,  Jakobine 
opposed  it  if  she  could.  Should  Jakobine  tell 
Mclchior  he  was  well,  from  that  moment  he 
would  not  dare  to  sneeze. 

It  was  ridiculous.  For  her  part  she  should 
never  marry.  She  had  a  poor  opinion  of 
marriage,  love-making,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  She  should  live  simply  and  solely  for 
her  profession,  as  her  good  Gireaud  had 
strongly  advised.  All  the  same,  she  wished 
she  might  have  some  enjoyment.  Sweethearts 
seemed  useful  to  go  about  with,  at  all  events. 
Everybody  had  friends  and  occasional  gay 
hours ;  she  knew  nobody  save  Melchior  and 
Jakobine,  and  they,  alas !  were  never  gay. 

No,  they  were  emphatically  dreary.  Still 
they  were  her  family.  If  they  would  be  but  a 
trifle  friendly,  she  would  be  so  thankful.  Never 
in  her  life  had  she  struggled  so  hard  to  be 
civil  as  to  Jakobine,  who  had  not  so  much  as 
14 


2io  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

asked  her  to  stay  to  supper.  She  wished  she 
might  have  stayed.  After  all,  Melchior  was 
her  brother,  if  he  did  mope  and  muffle. 

Bright  groups  of  fathers,  mothers,  children, 
and  lovers  lagging  behind,  met  her.  She  only 
was  alone.  She  would  go  home  and  begin  to 
knit  Melchior's  waistcoat.  Truly  a  pretty 
business  for  a  young  maid's  free  day.  She 
might  as  well  be  Tante  Ursula.  Vroni  pitied 
herself  vastly. 

But  if  she  could  but  sec  her  father  she  would 
not  mind  not  hearing  the  chorus  at  the 
Hunter's  Horn.  No,  she  would  miss  nothing 
in  all  the  world.  With  a  real  pang  of  home 
sickness,  her  heart  yearned  for  the  weaver,  and 
her  inner  vision  saw  him  vividly,  pale  and  dear 
in  the  old  familiar  clothes. 

At  that  instant  Vinccnz  Berg,  handsome, 
friendly,  and  debonair,  crossed  the  street  and 
carne  straight  toward  her. 

"  May  I  not  walk  a  bit  with  you?  "  he  asked 
without  a  shade  of  arrogance. 

"  Nay,"  she  replied  plaintively.  "  I  must 
go  my  way  alone.  " 

Without  a  word  he  dropped  behind,  and 
followed  her. 

"  He  also  seems  to  be  alone.     For  sure,  he 


Heart's  Dearest  i  \  i 

gives  up'  everything  to  follow  me  about.  He 
goes  off  gentle  as  a  child  when  I  but  speak. 
'T  is  mannerly.  Even  my  father  would  give 
him  praise  for  that.  Doubtless  he  'd  take  me 
to  the  Hunter's  Horn.  Doubtless  'twould 
gladden  him  no  less  to  hear  the  songs.  Ha ! 
'T  would  but  serve  my  Jakobine  right !  I 
would  my  father  had  not  bade  me  make  no 
friends  with  strangers  in  the  street,  for  truly  I 
fain  would  laugh  and  jest  to-day.  I'm  a  bit 
wild  at  heart,  and  could  greatly  run  and  spring 
and  shout,  were  it  not  town  and  Sunday  and 
I,  poor  maid,  alone." 

She  sighed  and  hurried  on,  ever  conscious 
of  the  subtle  comradeship  of  the  man's  light 
step  behind  her. 

"  'T  is  true,  he  was  right  ill-mannered  at  the 
Schloss  and  once  again.  But  that  was  long 
since.  Doubtless  he  repents  him  sore.  He 
seems  no  longer  like  a  stranger.  He  is 

o  o 

patient,  one  must  say,  and  minds  my  word, 
and  was  right  glad  to  see  my  face.  Tis  no 
harm  surely  that  he  follow  me,  since  he  's  no 
wolf,  but  tame  and  gentle-blooded." 

Smiling  faintly,  she  felt  no  longer  lonely,  for 
that  companionable  footfall  kept  rhythm  with 
her  own.  She  experimented  childishly,  walk- 


212  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

ing  faster,  slower :  it  met  her  whim ;  it  followed 
her  to  the  gate,  where  as  she  turned  she  could 
not  help  giving  him  one  swift  side-glance. 
What  it  said,  she  little  knew,  but  Vincenz 
smiled  all  the  way  to  the  beershop. 


Heart's  Dearest  213 


XI 


FORMALLY  off  duty,  Vroni  punctiliously 
avoided  intrusion  upon  her  domain  and  its 
viceroy. 

"  To-day  I  belong  fairly  nowhere, "  she 
lamented  as  she  found  her  knitting  needles 
and  some  wool,  and  happily  meeting  nobody, 
for  she  felt  rather  ashamed  of  her  flagrant 
friendlessness  and  isolation  from  all  earthly  joys, 
stole  into  the  servants'  dining-room,  where, 
if  without  true  resignation  yet  somewhat  com 
forted  and  stimulated  by  the  large  suggestive- 
ness  of  her  small  adventure,  she  proposed  to 
pass  some  hours  of  undeserved  solitude. 

At  the  large  table  beneath  the  hanging 
lamp  a  man  in  a  blue  uniform  appeared  to  be 
writing  either  with  his  nose  or  with  the  upper 
most  tuft  of  his  shock  of  flaxen  hair. 

"  Oh,  thou  here,  Tiber?  Grilss  Gott,"  she 
said  carelessly;  sat  down  opposite  him,  and 
began  to  take  up  her  stitches. 


214  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

He  started  in  joyful  surprise,  pushed  his 
chair  awkwardly,  half  got  up  as  if  to  salute  an 
officer,  grew  red,  stammered  "  Griiss  Gott,"  and 
sat  down  again.  As  she  said  nothing  more, 
but  with  a  half  frown  steadily  regarded  her 
knitting,  he  shyly  resumed  his  work.  For 
some  time  nothing  by  way  of  social  inter 
course  took  place  between  them,  beyond  the 
click-click  of  her  needles,  a  humble  and  steal 
thy  glance  at  intervals  from  under  his  white 
eyelashes,  and  the  angry  spluttering  of  his 
misused  pen. 

After  a  while  she  deigned  to  say  indiffer 
ently,  without  looking  up  :  — 

"  What  leads  thcc  hither  to-day,  Tiber?  " 

He  answered  with  the  hesitating  thick  utter 
ance  which  at  times  oppressed  him  :  - 

"  Count  Benno  's  off  somewhere,  but  late  must 
come  to  town  and  dress  again  for  something 
else,  a  feasting  at  Baron  Frege's,  if  I  err  not. 
I  was  to  bring  his  things  and  wait  for  orders." 

"  Truly,"  she  remarked  in  her  novel  misan 
thropical  vein,  "the  plums  are  poorly  measured 
in  the  great  world's  pudding.  'T  is  all  for  some, 
for  others  none."  Yawning  a  little,  she  with 
drew  into  the  remote  region  of  her  thoughts. 

At  length  Tiber's  incessant  scratching  began 


Heart's  Dearest  215 

insidiously  to  distract  her  attention  from  her 
great  grievances.  She  peered  at  him  inquisi 
tively,  as  his  heavy  hand  laboriously  traced 
oblique  characters,  by  turns  attenuated  and 
swimming  in  turbid  ink  —  a  vigorous  chiaro 
scuro. 

"  Na,  Tiber,  what  dost  thou  there  so 
busily?  " 

"  Writing,"  he  replied  solemnly. 

"  Writing,  for  truth  !  Have  I  no  eyes  to  see 
—  or  ears  to  hear  thee?"  she  added  with  a 
laugh.  "Ac/i,  Tiber,  art  a  queer  lad  —  but 
good  to  dogs.  There,  I  will  not  chide,  since 
upon  the  instant  thou  wearest  then  thy  beaten 
look.  Say,  what  meanst  with  thy  copy-book 
and  ragtag  bits  of  paper  ?  Dost  love  to  be 
cooped  up  on  a  Sunday  and  bury  thy  white 
head  in  scribbles?  Hast  no  wishes,  man? 
Knowst  no  place  where  are  merry  folk  and 
laughter  and  songs  that  beat  like  great  birds 
on  the  wing  ?  " 

She  sighed,  clicking  with  overcharged  swift 
ness. 

"  Wishes  enough  have  I,"  returned  the  man 
in  his  slow  way,  "  yet  all  one  wish."  As  if 
fearing  his  own  boldness,  he  broke  off  and 
watched  her  furtively.  Vroni  paid  no  heed. 


21 6  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

Slowly  and  shyly  he  pushed  a  heap  of 
scattered  leaves  across  the  wax-cloth  table- 
cover. 

"  Mayst  see  it,  Vroni,  if  thou  willst." 

She  took  up  the  nearest  scrap  of  paper  and 
read  aloud :  — 

"'A  detachment  of  the  enemy's  cavalry  is 
approaching  across  the  third  bridge  over  the 
brook  behind  the  wood  to  the  north  of  the 
tower.'  Licbcr  Himmcl !  "  Reading  one  after 
another  of  the  scattered  fragments,  "  '  A  de 
tachment,'  '  the  enemy,'  '  the  enemy  is  ap 
proaching.'  Truly  a  goodly  lot  of  enemies. 
Na!  'T  is  a  long  brook,  ch,  Tiber?  'The 
enemy.'  Another.  More.  Hast  nigh  to  thirty 
enemies,  all  coming  over  the  bridge  at  once, 
and  thou  that  wouldst  not  hurt  a  fly !  AC/I, 
Tiber!" 

For  some  unaccountable  reason  her  rollick 
ing  mirth  encouraged  the  diffident  man  not  a 
little.  He  rested  his  arms  on  the  table  and 
stared  across  at  the  mischievous  face  under 
the  little  white  cap.  On  his  honest  features 
was  a  broad  smile  of  unutterable  friendliness 
and  something  more,  and  his  blue  eyes  sought 
hers  with  an  insistence  at  variance  with  his 
halting  manner  and  inarticulate  speech. 


Heart's  Dearest  217 

"  What  meanst  thou  with  these  thy  ene 
mies?"  she  demanded  imperiously. 

"  Count  Benno  set  me  at  it,  that  I  may 
learn  to  'nounce.  He  says  I  glare  at  him  and 
contort  instead  of  simply  saying  who  in  the 
devil  wants  to  see  him.  The  manner  of  his 
speech  is  high  for  me,  but  the  kernel,  'tis 
clear,  is  that  I  please  him  ill.  So  I  'm  to 
write  it  fifty  times,  and  say  it  then  out  of  my 
own  head  and  learn  to  'nounce." 

"  Atschgdbele  !  'T  is  seemly  of  him  to  spring 
from  small  roebuck  to  truffled  turkey  while 
thou,  sweating  I  mark  well  overmuch,  dost  trot 
o'er  hill  and  dale  his  fifty  mounted  men  on  a 
Sunday  by  fair  weather !  " 

"  He  gave  no  orders  I  should  work  to-day," 
the  man  said  mildly.  "  But  having  the  task  on 
hand,  likewise  to  wait  for  him,  I  thus  filled  up 
my  time.  Count  Benno  is  no  hard  master." 

"Tis  plain!  " 

"  Truly  he  is  kinder  than  any  ever  was  to 
me  save  my  mother  and,"  hesitating  an  in 
stant,  "  thee,  Vroni." 

She  looked  at  him  half  wonderingly  under 
the  strong  light,  and  liked  the  voice  with  which 
he  had  just  spoken,  a  deeper  voice  than  Vin- 
cenz's  she  observed  and  less  smooth,  but 


2 1 8  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

strong,  sincere,  and  pleasant  to  the  car  when 
ever  Tiber  forgot  to  stammer. 

1  Stand  up,  Tiber,  in  thy  high  boots,"  she 
said  presently. 

He  rose  obedient. 

'  Turn  round  upon  thyself,  and  slow." 

He  revolved  as  on  a  pivot. 

"Again,"  she  commanded.  "Walk  thither 
to  the  door,  once, —  twice,  —  and  thrice. 
'  T  is  well."  She  nodded  gravely.  "  Naught 
fails  thee.  A  good  straight-legged  strong 
lad.  Why  then  hast  fear?  Why  canst  not 
'nounce?  " 

Unused  to  introspection  he  answered  noth 
ing. 

"  Knowst  not?  Shouldst  know,"  she  said 
curtly.  "  Why  dost  stammer  and  stare  ?  Why 
tremble?  Truly  't  is  a  blame  on  a  man." 

He  had  never  before  had  the  chance  to  look 
at  her  so  uninterruptedly  and  long,  and  made 
the  most  of  it. 

"  Speak,  Tiber.     I  '11  not  harm  thce." 

At  this  idea  a  great  delighted  grin  crept 
over  his  whole  countenance. 

'  Shouldst  'nounce  the  Kaiser  to  the  King, 
and  not  budge,"  she  declared  boldly,  drop 
ping  her  knitting.  "  Secst,  Tiber?"  Draw 


Heart's  Dearest  219 

ing  near,  she  stretched  herself  to  an  incredible 
height,  and  stood  with  arms  akimbo,  on  her 
face  an  expression  of  delicious  nonchalance. 
"  So  shouldst  thou  look  !  " 

With  a  great  mellow  laugh  he  responded : 

"  I  — look  like  thee!" 

"  Canst  try,  at  least." 

"  Would  gladly  please  thee,  Vroni,"  he  said 
simply. 

She  resumed  her  knitting.  He  plodded  on 
with  his  protesting  pen,  and  breathed  hard 
with  the  effort. 

"Tiber!" 

He  started. 

"Ac/i,  Tiber!  Didst  agree  to  stop  the 
trembling,  yet  art  at  it  soon  again ! " 

He  drooped  like  a  remorseful  dog. 

"  Willst  learn,"  she  remarked  graciously, 
which  instantly  revived  him.  "  I  but  meant 
to  ask  thcc,  what  sort  are  thy  people.  For, 
take  it  not  amiss,  I  once  did  know  a  little 
maid  whom  they  did  beat  more  than  was  meet 
for  her,  and  when  one  but  spoke  on  a  s*udden, 
she  did  tremble." 

"  I  Ve  a  rare  good  mother,"  he  answered  with 
profound  affection.  "  No  man  hath  a  better," 

"And  thy  father?  " 


220  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"  'T  is  my  stepfather,  a  good  enough  sort,"  he 
rejoined  without  enthusiasm,  "  since  my  mother 
liketh  him,  and  he  be  not  rough  with  her." 

"  I  wager  he  did  beat  thec !  "  cried  Vroni, 
pleased  with  her  own  shrewdness. 

"  Hardly  more  than  his  own  boys  —  and  the 
work  had  to  be  done,"  Tiber  replied  with  phil 
osophical  objectivity. 

"  Seest !  "  she  returned,  and  probed  further. 
"  Dost  write  as  though  thou  wert  ploughing 
a  stubbly  field  or  chopping  wood.  Since  there 
be  no  man  alive  who  learneth  not  his  penning 
when  a  child,  pray  how,  then,  didst  thou 
miss  it?" 

"  I  'm  ever  slow.  Thou  knowst,"  he  said 
meekly. 

In  his  good  eyes  was  some  perplexity,  for 
he  was  quite  unused  to  seek  connections  be 
tween  present  effects  and  remote  causes. 

"  Relate  to  me  thy  childhood,"  Vroni  com 
manded,  quite  grave  and  womanly. 

With  somewhat  broken  phrases  and  per 
ceptible  exertion,  yet  with  a  pleasant  manly 
ring  in  his  voice,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  endeavored  to  give  an  account  of  himself 
and  his  deficiencies. 

He  had  always  been  slow,  slower  than  the 


Heart's  Dearest  221 

others.  They  'd  all  to  work  hard.  He  as  the 
oldest  boy  had  to  be  up  at  three  or  four  o'clock 
in  the  morning  to  get  his  work  done  before 
school,  which  was  a  good  distance  from  the 
farm.  Then  somehow  he  felt  sleepy  and  dull 
in  the  head,  and  was  always  falling  asleep  in 
school,  and  the  master  had  to  flog  him  awake. 
Being  dull  and  sleepy  when  he  got  home,  he 
was  again  flogged  for  one  thing  and  another 
by  the  father.  Tiber  feared,  with  a  rather 
mournful  smile,  he  had  remained  dull  and 
sleepy  ever  since.  For  sure,  he  had  forgotten 
the  most  the  master  flogged  into  him.  At 
any  rate  the  little  reading  and  writing  he  once 
knew  grew  ever  farther  from  him.  He  had 
had  indeed  no  use  for  learning  on  the  farm 
where  he  had  worked  till  he  came  to  serve 
his  time  in  the  army. 

It  was  the  longest  oration  he  had  ever  made, 
but  Vroni's  lovely  eyes  were  resting  kindly  on 
him,  and  he  found  within  himself  as  he  went 
on  that  which  warmed  his  heart,  loosed  his 
tongue,  and  revealed  unhoped-for  stores  of 
language ;  he  only  wished  he  might  talk  on 
all  night  with  that  sweet  maid  to  listen. 

Again  she  nodded  her  young  head  and  re 
marked  oracularly :  — 


222  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"  Seest?  There  is  naught  without  a  reason. 
'T  is  cooking  has  taught  me  that.  How  old 
art  thou  ?  " 

"  Three  and  twenty." 

"  'Tis  too  old  to  tremble,  all  the  same." 

"  Pray  think  not  meanly  of  me,  Vroni,"  he 
returned  quietly.  "  Perchance  be  there  man's 
work  to  do,  I  fear  not  overmuch  and  waste 
not  time  in  trembling  —  no  more  it  may  be 
than  another.  'T  is  the  'nouncing  and  the 
right  placing  of  fine  words  that  make  my  flesh 
to  creep.  Then  when  the  gracious  countess 
passeth  me  by  chance  in  the  corridor  and 
turneth  her  head  thus,"  he  jerked  his  head  aside 
with  an  air  of  disgust  as  if  unpleasant  odors 
were  prevailing  —  "  't  is  then  I  most  do  shiver." 

"  'T  is  true,"  Vroni  observed  meditatively, 
"  she  fretted  even  me  on  the  first  day.  I  liked 
not  the  eyes  she  carried  on  a  stick." 

"  I  like  not  too  well  those  she  carrieth  in  her 
head,"  rejoined  Tiber,  dryly. 

"  But  gracious  Comtesse  Nelka?  Thou  shiv- 
erest  not  when  she  goes  by?  " 

"  Nay.     I  'd  ride  far  for  Comtesse  Nelka." 

"  And  I  —  or  crawl  upon  my  knees  !  Tiber, 
show  me  thy  ink.  Du  meinc  Giiic,  it  has  flies 
in  it!" 


Heart's  Dearest  223 

"  Surely  not  flies  in  winter?  " 

"  Crumbs  and  black  lumps  that  might  as 
well  be  flies,"  she  insisted,  seized  the  inkstand, 
emptied,  washed,  and  refilled  it  from  her  own 
bottle  on  a  shelf.  "  Never  again  write  with 
flics,  Tiber.  Hast  heard?" 

His  happy  face  sought  to  express  contrition, 
but  could  only  helplessly  bask  in  the  joy  of 
her  presence. 

"And  mark  this,  Tiber:  when  thou  dost 
start  thy  thirty-first  enemies  over  thy  paper 
bridge  for  thy  ne'er-do-well  Count  Benno, 
must  let  them  approach  with  two  p's,  seest? 
Bridge,  too,  for  some  reason  or  other,  is 
penned  in  the  schools  with  an  c  at  its  last 
end.  Not  that  a  letter  more  or  less  matters 
much.  The  main  thing  is  no  flies  and  that 
people  know  straightway  what  thou  meanst." 

"  Adi  !     Hast  a  deal  of  schooling,  Vroni !  " 

"  'T  is  true,  I  Ve  my  fair  share,"  she  admitted 
serenely.  "  I  went  to  school  till  I  was  quite 
fifteen.  Besides,  my  father  knows  a  lot,  and 
I  take  after  him.  'T  is  for  that  reason  I  'm 
not  dull.  Say,  willst  have  me  for  thy  school 
master  instead  of  thy  Count  Benno?  Then  I  '11 
give  thec  a  copy." 

Roguish,  quizzing  him,  yet  so  kind  withal, 


224  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

and  with  her  brilliant  beauty  that  bewildered 
him,  she  was  attuning  him  to  an  heroic  strain 
in  which  not  even  a  copy-book  could  daunt 
him. 

"  Here  —  a  fresh  pen  and  a  clean  leaf." 

Rather  neatly,  and  quite  boldly,  from  con 
stant  rapid  practice  in  her  market-book,  she 
wrote :  — 

Vcronika  Maria  Magdalcna  Lindl. 

"  Secst,  Tiber,  canst  write  me  fifty  Vronis, 
but  never  one  with  thy  tongue  lolling  out  thy 
mouth.  Hast  heard  ?  And  clutch  not  thy 
pen  as  if  'twere  saving  thce  from  death  by 
drowning.  Make  not  a  single  smudge.  Keep 
thy  ragged  letters  well  up  on  their  legs,  for 
they  do  fall  about  most  piteously.  Mayst  also 
wipe  thy  pen  once  in  three  weeks  or  so,  and 
sit  up  brave,  and  wear  a  pleasant  countenance, 
and  have  no  fit.  Nay,  not  now,  Tiber.  Canst 
hand  it  to  me  any  time  within  ten  years." 

"I  '11  do  it  for  thee,  Vroni.  I  will  remem 
ber  me  of  every  word." 

"  What  's  thy  own  name  ?  " 

He  told  her. 

"So.  Tiber  Gregor  Johannes  Merold.  Hast 
that  too  rarely  fine,  and  with  a  quirl  beneath 
like  Count  Vallade's  own." 


Heart's  Dearest  225 

A  strong  gleam  shot  over  the  man's  face  as 
he  saw  the  two  names,  hers  and  his,  on  one 
page.  She  closed  the  copy-book  and  pushed 
it  carelessly  aside. 

"Now  read  me  something,  Tiber.  Will 
see  how  much  of  that  they  flogged  in  and  out 
thy  sleepy  head." 

The  passage  indicated  at  random  in  the 
newspaper,  she  thrust  into  his  hands,  filled 
him  with  choking  wretchedness.  He  careered 
wildly  through  it,  stopped  to  take  breath  in 
the  middle  of  the  long  words,  and  gulped 
down  the  short  ones  whole. 

"  Halt,  Tiber,  halt !  Hand  me  the  paper. 
I  mark  but  precious  little  sense  therein." 

"  I,  none,"  he  groaned. 

"  Silver  —  gold  —  currency  !  "  she  ran  her 
eye  sagaciously  over  the  solid  column  —  a 
leader.  "Ha,  'tis  not  worth  the  gabble. 
The  chief  thing  is  to  have  one  or  the  other. 
Either  is  good  enough  for  me.  But  thou, 
Tiber,  art  for  sure  a  terrible  flounderer.  Save 
the  black  Anastasia,  I  never  heard  thy  like." 

"  My  tongue  was  ever  heavy." 

" 'T  is  not  thy  tongue  alone,"  she  retorted 
sharply.  "  'T  is  what  lies  behind.  Dost  not 
understand,  Tiber.  A  man  should  under- 
15 


226  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

stand.  My  father  understands  all  things." 
She  shook  her  head  with  serious  disapproval. 

"Would  I  were  like  him,"  Tiber  said 
gently,  a  shade  of  sadness  in  his  trusty  eyes. 

"Fret  not  thyself,  good  Tiber,"  she  ex 
claimed,  with  a  quick,  kind  smile.  "So  that 
thou  standest  straight,  with  a  brave  face  for 
all  men,  the  learning  matters  little.  Even  I, 
myself,  have  small  concern  for  newspapers, 
save  for  the  market-lists,  which  are  good  read 
ing.  But  't  is  the  butler  who  can  tell  all 
the  world's  news,  and  many  a  time,  a  great 
opinion." 

"'Tis  a  pretty  gift,"  returned  Tiber,  with 
a  powerful  pang  of  envy. 

"And  figures,  Tiber?"  she  asked  suddenly. 
"  How  standest  thou  to  thy  sums?  " 

"Awful !"  he  groaned.  "  Hast  now,  Vroni, 
the  worst  of  me !  " 

"A  man  needs  must  be  sharp  at  ciphering." 

"  Count  Benno  chides  that  I  do  cheat  myself, 
not  him." 

"  Shouldst  cheat  neither  thyself,  nor  thy 
count,"  warned  his  stern  pedagogue.  "What 
thinkst  thou  would  become  of  me,  could  I 
not  reckon  faster  than  the  market  wives  who 
seek  to  trip  me  ?  " 


Heart's  Dearest  227 

"  'T  is  a  thing,  somehow,  I  never  could  beat 
into  my  pate,"  he  said  despondently. 

Once  more  she  flashed  at  him  her  warm 
smile  of  consolation. 

"Never  thou  mind,  Tiber.  Art  orderly, 
and  I  like  thee.  Yet  were  I  thou,  I  'd  learn 
to  add  my  columns  straight.  That  such  a 
man  should  know." 

Ceaselessly  in  and  out  flew  her  hands.  Her 
glance  wandered  fitfully  around  the  room. 

With  a  little  laugh  she  remarked  :  — • 

"  Dost  comb  thy  hair  straight  upwards  like 
a  cock.  Maybe  't  is  why  thou  sometimes 
lookst  afraid." 

"Maybe." 

"  A  man  should  never  be  affrighted,  Tiber. " 

"Nay,  Vroni,  nay.  'T  is  quite  true.  He 
should  not." 

"  There  be  some,  indeed,  that  make  them 
selves  too  bold,"  she  admitted,  half  reluc 
tantly,  and  flushed  slightly.  "Yet,"  thinking 
of  Melchior,  "I  like  not  frightened  men,"  she 
added  with  a  frown. 

Tiber  listened,  intent  and  motionless. 

"Men  folk  are  little  to  my  taste,"  she  con 
tinued,  with  some  asperity,  "being  mostly 
either  craven  things,  or  saucy  and  shiny-eyed 


228  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

—  except,"  she  smiled  again,  and  broke  out 
radiantly,    "  my    father.       Seest,    Tiber,    my 
father   has  a  look  —  not   Count  Vallade   has 
the  like!     Nor  can  the  young  counts  measure 
with  him  any  day.     Not  Herr  Eck  Flemming, 
though  he  is  fairly  well  to  look  upon.      Not " 

—  she   hesitated,    colored,    and    added,    "  not 
any  man,  though  with  fine  clothes  and  friendly 
ways,   and  glad   to  see  one  when  none  else 
cares  —  nay,  none  has  my  father's  look.    None 
is  so  dear." 

Tiber,  leaning  forward,  watched  her  great 
loveliness,  his  dumbness  struggling  for  ex 
pression;  yet  he  knew  too  well  words  were 
not  for  such  as  he.  His  pale  top-knot  and 
linty  eyelashes  caught  the  light.  She  met 
his  serious,  manly  gaze,  the  steadfastness  of 
which  she  instinctively  recognized,  in  spite 
of  his  peculiarities;  and  after  a  little  pause, 
she  asked  kindly: — 

"What  thinkst  thou  to  begin  after  thy  time 
of  service  ?  Hast  nearly  finished,  eh  ?  Willst 
go  back  to  thy  mother  and  the  farm  ?  " 

He  smiled  for  pleasure  that  she  spoke  of 
his  mother. 

"  Nay,  not  so  soon.  Am  little  needed 
there." 


Heart's  Dearest  229 

"Willst  surely  not  remain  in  thy  Count 
Benno's  service?" 

"  'T  is  not  agreed  upon,  but  talked  of  many 
a  time.  He  fain  would  keep  me." 

"Nay,  Tiber,"  she  protested,  "take  it  not 
ill,  I  know  't  is  not  my  business.  But  if 
before  I  jested  somewhat  and  did  jeer  thee, 
now  I  talk  sense.  Stay  not  too  long  with  thy 
Count  Benno.  The  life 's  too  idle  for  an 
honest  man.  That  much  I  see  with  my  own 
eyes  every  day.  Now  thou  art  a  soldier,  hast 
enough  work.  But  later,  wert  thou  but  his 
valet,  thou  wouldst  loll  too  much  upon  thy 
lazy  bones,  and  ape  thy  master,  like  the  rest 
of  them.  Nay,  Tiber,  truly  I  like  thee  better 
as  thou  art." 

"  Hast  reason,  Vroni,  and  speakest  sense 
like  a  man.  'T  is  not  my  wish  to  stay,  yet 
one  keeps  sometimes  what  one  has,  rather 
than  seek  new  things  too  long." 

"  'T  is  naught,"  she  replied,  with  a  peremp 
tory  wave  of  a  knitting  needle. 

That  quiet  room,  and  only  he  and  the 
Madel ;  they  two  beneath  one  lamp ;  she  knit 
ting  swiftly  with  her  brown  wool  and  big 
white  needles,  meanwhile  being  lovely  all  for 
him,  dull,  sleepy-headed  Tiber;  for  him  so 


230  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

merry,  kind,  wise,  winsome,  and  enchanting; 
—  this  was  more  happiness  than  he  had  ever 
known,  almost  more  than  he  could  bear. 

The  cuckoo  clock  ticked  noisily.  Vroni's 
light  click-click  tapped  accompaniment. 
Tiber,  his  eyes  devouring  her,  breathed  deep. 
His  mental  machinery  moved  somewhat  pon 
derously,  and  of  this  fact  none  was  so  well 
aware  as  he.  But  he  felt  he  could  in  time 
say  to  Vroni  alone,  all  on  his  heart,  the  dumb, 
slow  thoughts,  he  had  never  expressed,  - 
thoughts  indeed,  of  which  he  was  unconscious 
until  she  called  them  into  being.  But  one 
straight  thing  he  wanted  first  to  say,  and 
dared  not.  He  had  known  it  long,  yet  never 
had  a  chance  to  speak,  believed,  too,  he  must 
be  silent  always  with  his  full  heart.  But 
this  night  had  brought  them  nearer.  It  was 
friendly  in  the  still  room  and  intimate  to  chat 
of  family,  home,  and  one's  life-work.  Could 
he  but  start  his  heavy  tongue,  he  'd  have  a 
world  to  say  to  her  —  but  of  all  this  he  had 
achieved  not  one  syllable,  when  suddenly 
Count  Benno's  bell  rang. 


Heart's  Dearest  231 


XII 

FOR  the  unceasing  festivities  inevitable  be 
neath  the  Vallade  roof  in  those  months, 
because  a  charming  child  was  about  to  be 
devoured  by  an  ogre,  Vroni  worked  like  a 
hero.  She  composed  exquisite  dinners,  and 
lived  up  to  her  traditions.  The  more  impor 
tant  the  occasion,  the  more  calm  and  master 
ful  was  she.  Countess  Vallade  declared  the 
girl  was  worth  her  weight  in  gold,  — a  genius, 
nothing  less.  Moreover,  the  lady,  revoking 
crystallized  methods,  issued  a  mandate  to  her 
corps  of  domestics  to  presume  to  place  no 
straw  of  offence  in  Vroni 's  way.  They  one 
and  all  might  go  auf  Nimmenvicdcrschcn,  pro 
vided  she  remained.  She  took  no  shade  of 
advantage  of  the  augmented  strength  of  her 
position,  but  quietly  pursued  the  old  lines 
dictated  by  her  own  sense  of  justice  and 
mother  wit.  Still  the  novel  distinction  left 
her  stranded  rather  higher  in  loneliness  than 


232  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

before.  Uneasy  is  the  head  that  wears  any 
sort  of  crown. 

During  the  week  she  desired  only  her  work. 
She  rejoiced  in  it,  and  in  the  confidence  and 
respect  which  her  ability  commanded.  In 
her  province  she  perceived  no  drudgery.  Her 
varied  occupations  appealed  to  her  ambition, 
her  enthusiasm,  her  artistic  sense;  never 
became  hackneyed,  but  presented  the  rich 
charm  of  the  ever-new  and  unrevealed,  for 
she,  too,  like  her  master,  "created." 

But  she  was  a  young  thing  and  ardent.  As 
she  became  habituated  to  the  routine  of  the 
house,  and  to  the  group  for  the  most  part  of 
staid  elderly  servants  who  went  their  stereo 
typed  way,  her  pleasure-loving  nature  ruth 
lessly  demanded  something  more,  something 
which  she  was  able  to  formalize  only  as  "a 
happy  Sunday."  Even  for  such  as  she,  it 
was  hardly  an  extravagant  claim  upon  the 
world's  fund  of  pleasure;  for  what  she  liter 
ally  meant  was  merely  a  little  entertainment, 
according  to  the  simple  customs  of  her  land 
and  station,  between  the  hours  of  four  and 
ten  at  night,  every  fourteen  days.  She  clung 
obstinately  to  her  instinct  of  family,  and  to 
that  broken  reed  Melchior,  and  started  forth 


Heart's  Dearest  233 

every  free  day  with  blithest  hope,  as  if  a 
miracle  would  intervene  to  silence  Jakobine's 
nagging.  But  the  best  that  ever  happened, 
was  that  in  a  crowd  one  became  sometimes 
oblivious  of  her. 

Vroni  could  have  wept  aloud  with  chagrin 
on  the  afternoon  she  for  the  first  time  found 
her  brother's  door  aggressively  locked.  In 
credulous,  she  knocked  and  called,  but  in  vain. 

"  It  is  because  I  told  Jakobine  I  doted  on  a 
military  band,"  she  reflected  ruefully.  "Oh, 
why  did  I  say  it !  " 

Melchior's  house  was  one  of  a  uniform  row 
of  palace-servants'  cottages  in  a  paved  quad 
rangle,  with  a  fountain  in  the  centre.  The 
houses  looked  deserted.  All  was  still. 

She  stood  irresolute.  She  could  not  bear  to 
turn  away  from  that  rampant  inhospitality. 

"  Everybody  is  happy.  Everybody  is  gone 
somewhere.  Mean,  mean  Jakobine  !" 

A  brisk  step  crossed  the  quiet  court. 

"  Well,  that  is  bad  luck !  "  exclaimed  an 
amiable  voice  over  her  shoulder.  "  Here  let 
me  try,"  and  Vincenz  pounded  the  door 
valiantly  with  his  walking-stick. 

They  waited,  listening,  and  staring  in  each 
other's  eyes. 


234  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

" 'T  is  no  use,"  she  said  disconsolately. 
"They've  gone  without  me." 

"Were  you  late?"  he  inquired  with  sym 
pathy. 

"  Late  !  "  she  retorted  vehemently.  "  I  was 
here  on  the  stroke  of  the  clock.  'T  is  Jako- 
bine's  handiwork ! " 

"Jakobine  should  be  well  trounced  for  it." 

"Oh,"  she  returned  quickly,  with  a  frown, 
"speak  rather  of  what  concerns  you." 

"Vincenz,  my  boy,  go  slow!"  he  said  to 
himself. 

"I  understood  you  to  remark  — 

She  checked  him,  not  without  dignity:  — 

"That  is  quite  different.  Even  if  my 
tongue  be  quick,  a  stranger  need  not  notice 
it.  Jakobine  is  my  brother's  wife  —  hateful 
though  she  be,  and  hard  of  heart  on  this  fine 
Sunday  !  But  what  is  that  to  you  ?  Why  do 
you  linger  here?  " 

He  laughed  pleasantly. 

"Come,  I  like  that.  I  happened  to  be  pass 
ing.  I  have  friends  living  —  over  there,"  with 
a  conveniently  large  gesture.  "I  stopped  an 
instant  to  see  if  I  could  help  you.  It  seemed 
a  shame,  a  young  maid  should  be  left  all 
alone,  and  the  door  locked  flat  against  her." 


Heart's  Dearest  235 

Vroni  drew  a  long  breath,  and  squeezing 
back  two  tears,  smouldered  like  a  grieved 
child. 

"  And  't  is  the  Grenadier  Band  ! "  she  sighed. 
She  stood  on  the  door-stone,  a  little  above 
him,  was  arrayed  in  her  best,  which  was  neat, 
dark,  and  plain,  not  without  distinct  refine 
ment.  The  man  watched  her  eagerly. 

"  And  what,  if  I  may  ask,  are  you  going  to 
do  now  ? " 

"  Nothing, "  she  replied  mournfully.  "  Noth 
ing  at  all." 

"  I  think  that  is  quite  too  bad." 

She  nodded  in  sad  acquiescence,  and  pitied 
herself  vastly. 

"  'T  is  bad,  indeed." 

"  Now  what  if  you  and  I  should  take  a  little 
quiet  walk  together?  "  he  suggested,  in  a 
friendly  and  matter-of-fact  tone. 

"I  did  think  of  that  myself,"  she  returned 
seriously;  "but  then  you  see  we  do  not  know 
each  other,  and  my  father  would  not  think  it 
seemly." 

"  Ah  —  you  have  known  me  months  and 
months." 

"  In  a  round-the-corner  sort  of  way.  'T  is 
no  straight  acquaintanceship. " 


236  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"Ah  —  after  all  the  shoe-leather  I  've  worn 
out  in  following  you." 

"'Twas  your  own  foolishtry, "  she  retorted 
stoutly.  "  Nobody  asked  you.  " 

"Answer  me  this.  Have  I  been  patient? 
Have  I  respected  your  wish  ?  Have  I  obeyed 
your  least  word  ?  " 

"Tis  true." 

They  had  strolled  slowly  half  across  the 
quadrangle,  and  stood  involuntarily  by  the 
fountain. 

"If  I  knew  what  to  do  with  myself,"  he 
remarked,  with  amiable  ingenuousness.  "  I 
am  quite  alone,  too.  It  is  odd  enough,  but 
my  friends  also  have  left  me  in  the  lurch." 

"  'T  is  a  great  shame,"  she  cried  warmly. 

"Yes,  isn't  it?  So  I  merely  thought,  both 
being  in  the  same  boat,  it  would  be  reason 
able  to  take  a  little  outing  together." 

"Truly,  it  sounds  reasonable,"  sighed 
Vroni. 

"  Particularly  as  I  am  acquainted  with  your 
brother." 

"Oh,  are  you  ?"  she  smiled,  radiant. 

"And  it  seemed  to  me  we  might  look  him 
up  —  follow  after,  don't  you  know?  Suppose 
we  should  just  go  up  to  the  Hunter's  Horn 


Heart's  Dearest  237 

to  hear  the  Grenadier    Band,   and   find   him? 
What  could  be  more  simple  than  that  ? " 

She  clasped  her  hands  in  delight. 

"And  surprise  Frau  Jakobine,"  he  sug 
gested  farther. 

"  Sapristi  !     'T  would  but  serve  her  right. " 

Why  not,  instead  of  going  home  to  bewail 
her  lot,  do  what  would  be  really  clever  and 
desirable,  what,  in  fact,  might  be  called  her 
plain  duty,  —  assert,  for  once,  her  indepen 
dence,  and  enjoy  herself  to  the  top  of  her 
bent,  in  despite  of  Jakobine.  Vroni  regarded 
the  man's  friendly  face.  He  sat  on  the  low 
moulding  of  the  fountain,  tapped  his  boot 
with  his  cane,  and  kept  his  alert  eyes  fixed  on 
hers. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  'm  waiting  for,"  she 
said  slowly.  For  still  something  seemed 
distinctly  to  restrain  her  word  of  assent,  and 
bid  her  to  forego  this  step. 

He  got  up. 

"I  '11  not  urge  you.  Why  should  you  go 
unwillingly.  'Twas  not  to  trouble  you  that 
I  spoke.  I  will  go  to  the  Horn  myself,  for 
the  music  will  be  great.  If  I  spy  your 
brother  and  his  wife,  I  '11  say  I  left  you  here. 
So  good-by,  and  a  pleasant  evening  to  you." 


238  Di'onysms  the  Weaver's 

He  took  off  his  hat,  and  turned  away  slowly. 

Vroni  saw  the  staring  row  of  little  empty 
houses;  she  saw  the  broad  blue  sky,  and  felt 
the  fresh  air  on  her  cheek. 

"Wait,"  she  cried,  "I  '11  just  go  along  a 
bit." 

Out  of  the  town  and  up  a  long  hill,  the  two 
walked  together.  It  was  the  last  of  February, 
and  spring  coming  on  apace.  Vroni  laughed, 
glowed,  and  sparkled.  Vincenz  was  careful 
to  tell  her  only  innocuous  tales  of  his  wide 
wanderings,  such  as  he  deemed  would  not 
alarm  or  vex  her,  for  he  had  wit  enough  to 
perceive  she  was  not  as  many  he  had  known 
and  knew.  They  spoke,  too,  of  themselves, 
how  persistently  he  had  haunted  her  path. 
Once  he  had  darted  from  behind  a  statue  of 
a  mounted  king,  and  startled  her.  They 
laughed  at  the  remembrance.  Then  the  day 
he  stood  at  the  flower  booth.  Then  that  clay 
in  the  rain.  And  when  a  nursery-maid  upset 
her  perambulator,  and  the  morning  the  dra 
goons  rode  past.  Already  a  host  of  droll  and 
familiar  reminiscences. 

In  the  large,  brilliantly-lighted  pavilion  on 
the  hill,  she  sat  in  a  corner,  slowly  sipped 
her  beer,  and  looked  blissfully  about  upon 


Heart's  Dearest  239 

hundreds  of  couples,  —  husbands  and  wives, 
brothers  and  sisters,  sweethearts,  at  many 
tables,  children  too.  Nobody  minded  her  and 
Berg.  She  wondered  she  had  hesitated  an 
instant,  it  was  all  so  simple  and  delightful. 
The  tone  was  gently  gay;  faces  were  kind, 
voices  happy.  This  was  what  she  had  craved. 
It  was  life.  Her  eyes  grew  starry ;  her  cheeks 
and  lips  glowed  like  rich  flowers;  she  gave 
Vincenz  friendly  and  grateful  glances. 

"'Tis  strange,  I  spy  not  my  Melchior  and 
his  Jakobine. " 

"'Tis  strange,  indeed,"  agreed  the  man, 
who  had  seen  them  making  for  quite  a  differ 
ent  quarter. 

"  Would  they  could  see  me  now !  Would 
they  'd  walk  in  !" 

Vincenz  made  a  queer  grimace. 

"I  wish  that  less." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Well  —  I'd  rather  have  you  all  to  myself. " 

She  gave  him  a  shrewd  glance. 

"  Hm  !  I  believe  you  know  my  brother  not 
at  all." 

"  I  may  not  know  him  very  well.  I  met 
him  once  in  a  crowd  of  men,  you  see.  Prob 
ably  he  has  forgotten  me." 


240  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"Doubtless,"  she  returned  dryly,  adding, 
after  a  few  moments,  gravely:  "  'T  is  a  poor 
thing  to  tell  fibs.  As  for  me,  I  cannot  stom 
ach  them.  Mind  that  if  you  want  more  than 
a  round-the-corner  acquaintanceship  with  me." 

"Never  fear.  'T  is  my  habit  to  speak  by 
the  book.  '  A  man,  — a  word,'  say  I." 

"How  beautiful  'tis  here,"  she  exulted, 
"and  how  they'll  be  astonished!" 

"Do  you  think  you'd  better  tell  them?" 
he  asked  quite  tranquilly. 

She  looked  apprehensively  at  him. 

"Perhaps  I  '11  not  tell  them  just  yet,  for  I 
do  fear  me  Jakobine  would  never  let  me  come 
again." 

"  Confound  Jakobine  !  "  he  remarked  heart 
ily,  and  Vroni  smiled. 

While  she  sat  thrilling  and  throbbing  with 
the  music,  which  now  strangely  softened  her 
bright  face  as  with  a  veil  of  tender  and  half 
regretful  memories,  now  swept  her  soul  toward 
unimagined  realms  of  recklessness,  far  away 
on  the  Rough  Alp  in  the  little  cottage  by  the 
crag,  Dionysius  the  weaver  lay  dying,  his 
last  thought,  unutterable  love  for  his  Madel. 

His   children,   or   most    of   them    at    least, 


Heart's  Dearest  241 

gathered  at  the  homestead  for  the  funeral,  — 
Vroni  frantic  with  sorrow.  But  something 
strange  was  sent  to  steady  her,  and  give  her 
strength  to  endure.  Agathe's  great  strength 
and  rude  health  succumbed  like  a  blasted  oak. 
Helpless  and  gentle,  she  lay  ill;  and,  the 
others  leaving,  except  Sebastian,  who  stayed 
to  regulate  affairs,  Vroni  tended  her.  In  a 
couple  of  weeks  she,  too,  passed  away.  All 
that  she  said  of  the  weaver  was  —  her  meek, 
bewildered  eyes  gazing  at  his  loom  —  the  oft- 
repeated,  apologetic  murmur:  — 

"Seest,  Vroni,  I  was  used  to  him." 
"Truly,     mother,"    the     heartbroken     girl 
would  answer,  as  if  soothing  a  child,  "wast 
used  to  him." 

So  Agathe  died,  of  a  cold  and  strain  the 
neighbors  said;  and  Sebastian  gave  his  half- 
stunned  little  sister  much  excellent  advice, 
and  returned  to  his  vegetables  and  devotions. 
She,  with  her  poignant  heart-ache  for  the 
weaver,  and  most  pitiful  in  her  remembrance 
of  the  tempestuous  mother,  so  softened  in 
those  last  days,  took  with  her  some  recently 
spun  rolls  of  fine  linen,  marked  For  Vroni,  and 
promptly  resumed  her  duties  in  the  Vallade 
house.  Simple  folk  waste  little  time  upon 
16 


242  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

the  luxury  of  prolonged  and  visible  mourning. 
Work  they  have  always  with  them. 

In  her  vast  homesickness  and  longing,  as 
she  came  from  ineffectual  attempts  at  inter 
course  with  Melchior  and  Jakobine  back  to 
the  stately  house  where  none  cared  for  her 
self,  but  only  for  her  skilled  productions; 
where  no  older  and  more  experienced  woman 
sought  to  discover  her  human  needs,  to  com 
fort  and  sustain  her  young,  sad  heart ;  where 
Comtesse  Nclka,  it  is  true,  murmured  a  few 
gentle,  pitying  words  to  her  upon  her  return, 
but  never  again,  after  that  first  delightful 
essay,  was  permitted  to  find  time  to  cheer 
herself  and  a  sister-girl  with  kind  companion 
ship  and  sympathy,  — Vincenz  Berg  never  lost 
an  opportunity  to  meet  her,  was  always  near 
at  hand,  friendly,  and  solicitous. 

In  her  extravagant  moods  he  suited  her 
well.  At  other  times  she  would  turn  upon 
him  with  "sudden,  undefined  mistrust;  for  he 
had  ways  and  words  that  jarred  upon  her 
when  he  was  off  his  guard.  For  her  deeper 
feelings,  the  strength  of  her  affection  for  her 
dead  father 'and  her  mountain  home,  she  per 
ceived  instinctively  Vincenz  had  no  compre 
hension  ;  and  after  one  or  two  attempts,  when 


Heart's  Dearest  243 

she  looked  at  him  strangely  as  if  across  a 
chasm,  she  banished  him  completely  from 
that  sanctuary. 

But  he  offered  certain  compensations  for 
his  hollowness  and  flippancy.  He  was  adroit, 
experienced,  and  full  of  worldly  tact.  He 
made  things  kindly  for  her  when  the  world 
was  gloomy.  He  comforted  her  at  first,  with 
his  devoted  presence,  and,  as  time  went  on, 
cheered  her  with  sunny  and  amiable  non 
sense.  Being  in  love  with  her,  he  appeared 
at  his  best,  and  at  his  worst  was  no  monster 
of  iniquity,  but  merely  a  careless  young  fel 
low  —  of  the  baser  sort.  He  made  love  to 
her  with  gentleness,  not  too  precipitately,  and 
she  was  young,  and  alone  but  for  him. 

Fearing  Jakobine's  interference,  Vroni  met 
him  clandestinely.  She  gradually  ceased  her 
regular  visits  at  Melchior's,  and  her  eager 
ness  to  go  about  with  them  cooled  visibly. 
Jakobine's  lovelessness  palled  in  truth  upon 
the  young  girl,  after  Vincenz's  soft  and  un 
failing  devotion. 

On  a  certain  Sunday,  Jakobine  sent  her  a 
message,  bidding  her  not  to  call  for  them  as 
agreed,  for  they  were  invited  by  old  friends. 
Vroni,  in  the  singularly  effervescent  mood 


244  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

into  which  recovery  from  the  weaver's  be 
queathed  headache  was  apt  to  plunge  her,  —  a 
mood  of  physical  languor  and  gayest  irrespon 
sibility,  —  started  out  with  Vincenz. 

It  was  June  weather.  In  the  perfumed 
breath  of  earth,  of  fields  and  woods,  where 
they  strayed,  in  the  scent  of  myriad  roses, 
laburnum,  and  acacia  drooping  rich  with  sweet 
ness  over  high  garden  walls,  in  the  love- 
glances,  song,  and  happy  laughter  of  scores  of 
youths  and  maids,  merry  in  groups,  or  steal 
ing  off  by  twos  to  whisper  together  in  the 
twilight,  was  a  vast  and  subtle  intoxication. 
That  day  they  wandered  far. 

While  those  below  the  salt  were  thus  enact 
ing  their  humble  destinies,  Eck  Flemming 
had  long  since  sailed  away,  as  secretary  to  his 
scientific  and  exploring  expedition;  Nelka 
von  Vallade  was  engaged  to  be  married  to 
Baron  Frege;  and  for  their  lives  neither  of 
the  two  could  have  told  how  it  all  came  about. 

Nothing  whatever  of  an  agitated  nature 
transpired,  not  even  a  little  wee  promise  of 
eternal  fidelity.  Countess  Vallade  took  good 
care  to  prevent  solecisms.  The  atmosphere 
was  balmy  to  the  last,  when  "dear  Eck  was 


Heart's  Dearest  245 

so  unexpectedly  whisked  away."  His  party, 
after  long  preliminaries,  had,  it  seemed,  sud 
denly  determined  to  set  off  at  an  earlier  date 
than  that  appointed,  and  Eck  was  summoned 
by  telegraph  to  join  his  chief  at  Marseilles. 

Dearest  Nelka  happened  to  be  staying  a 
couple  of  days  with  friends  in  the  country, 
when  dear  Eck  came  to  make  his  hurried  fare 
wells.  He  had  most  unfortunately  but  a  few 
hours  in  town,  for  his  young  orphan  sisters 
were  naturally  entitled  to  his  last  moments. 
Besides,  the  business  arrangements  dear  Eck 
so  nobly  made  for  them  demanded  some  little 
time.  Eck  was  a  noble  fellow,  and  nobility 
of  sentiment  and  deed  always,  the  countess 
stated  as  her  firm  belief,  carried  within  itself 
its  sure  reward.  Dearest  Nelka  would  be 
quite  inconsolable,  for  Eck  was  as  dear  to 
her  as  her  brothers. 

The  count  embraced  him  affectionately  but 
with  a  distrait  air,  and,  waiving  acknowledg 
ments  of  influence  and  protection,  told  him 
his  future  was  now  assured. 

"With  your  ability  and  energy  —  don't 
speak  of  it,  my  dear  boy,  not  worth  mention 
ing  —  a  brilliant  career,  and  one  after  your 
own  heart.  Ah,  my  dear  boy,  if  I  were 


246  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

young   again   and   in   your  shoes !     Africa  is 
the  place  for  a  man  to-day." 

He  then  rang  a  bell,  gave  some  papers  and 
orders  to  the  man  who  answered  it,  fum 
bled  with  a  pile  of  documents,  ran  his  hand 
brusquely  through  his  hair,  and,  with  a  some 
what  wandering  eye,  added:— 

"  I  congratulate  you,  my  dear  boy,  I  con 
gratulate  you,  upon  my  word." 

Although  the  moment  seemed  but  too  plainly 
to  invite  a  prompt  exit  rather  than  confi 
dences,  Flemming  had,  he  believed,  no  choice 
but  to  avail  himself  as  best  he  might  of  its 
unpropitiousness.  As  he  opened  his  mouth 
to  ask  the  very  fidgety  gentleman  for  his 
daughter,  in  clanked  Benno, — "Arm'd,  say 
you?  Arm'd,  my  lord!"  —  from  the  expres 
sion  of  whose  face  as  well  as  his  father's, 
presumably  by  appointment.  Benno  drawled 
Africa  was  "pyramidal;"  Eck  "colossal 
lucky  "  and  a  " plicnomcnal  good  fellow";  — 
and  love's  young  dream  was  crowded  out. 

Flemming  went  to  his  hotel,  and  wrote  a 
letter  to  Comtesse  Nelka.  It  was  long,  warm, 
straightforward,  manly,  and  resolute.  It  dis 
played,  although  a  love-letter,  and  written 
in  desperate  haste  by  a  soldier  of  fortune,  a 


Heart's  Dearest  247 

praiseworthy  degree  of  common  sense;  like 
the  heart  which  inspired  it,  was  torn  and 
baffled  by  the  grief  of  so  inadequate  parting, 
yet  rang  with  a  brave  strain  of  comfort  and 
protection  that  would  have  endued  Nelka  with 
joyous  strength  to  wait  and  hope.  In  short, 
it  was  a  very  good  letter,  but  it  went  astray, 
-letters,  like  emotions,  sometimes  do  even 
in  the  best  of  families. 

Had  Nelka  been  opposed  or  provoked  to 
demonstration,  she  might  have  discovered  her 
latent  power.  But  everybody  was  devoted  to 
her;  she  was  petted,  caressed,  adored.  Her 
three  brothers  could  hardly  have  been  more 
tender  to  a  lady-love.  Many  nights  for  many 
weeks  she  wept  herself  to  sleep  because  Eck 
had  gone  off  without  a  word,  and  she  thought 
of  him  continually  as  was  her  habit  for  years. 
They  had  always  cared  for  each  other;  that 
was  a  matter  of  course,  and  they  had  said  it, 
too,  in  words.  But  it  grew  with  time  more 
and  more  evident  that  what  her  mother  called 
"the  immeasurable  ambition  of  youth"  had 
drifted  him  away  from  his  little  friend  and 
sweetheart. 

Every  one  spoke  of  him  with  frank  affec 
tion.  None  sought  to  spare  her  feelings,  or 


248  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

seemed,  indeed,  to  assume  that  she  had  any 
sensitiveness  concerning  him.  She  fell  in 
with  their  method,  and  gave  no  sign,  except 
that  she  was  a  little  listless.  They  prophe 
sied  great  things  of  him.  Clotilde,  who  had 
returned  from  extensive  travels,  stated  with 
conviction  that  Eck  would  never  marry,  at 
least  not  for  years,  for  he  was  too  clever  not 
to  realize  a  wife  would  be  but  an  impediment 
in  the  high  flight  he  contemplated. 

Nelka  rather  liked  the  splendid  stones 
flashing  upon  her  hand,  but  grew  silent  and 
apathetic  in  the  presence  of  her  elderly  lover. 
Still,  she  was  hurried  so  adroitly  from  one 
thing  to  another,  she  really  had  little  time  to 
be  consciously  miserable. 

Count  Waldemar,  her  favorite  brother, 
whom  she  saw  infrequently,  he  being  sta 
tioned  at  a  distant  garrison,  looked  rather 
gravely  at  her  when  he  first  saw  her  after  the 
engagement. 

"Well,  lambkin,"  he  said,  "what's  all 
this?  Rough  on  you,  eh?" 

"I  don't  mind  much,"  she  replied  list 
lessly,  which  was  true  at  the  moment,  for 
Baron  Frege  was  not  near.  "  See,  Waldemar, 
this  is  the  ring.  This  tiny  butterfly  watch 


Heart's  Dearest  249 

came  yesterday.  Something  or  other  comes 
every  day." 

He  put  his  arm  round  her. 

"Nelka  dear,  never  mind  those  things.  I 
do  not  understand  —  " 

"What  don't  you  understand,  dear  Walde- 
mar?  Nelka,  my  darling,  you  must  hurry  a 
little,  or  you  will  be  late  to  dinner.  Now, 
Walclemar  ?  " 

"I  don't  like  it,"  he  said  bluntly.  "It's 
abominable,  you  know !  " 

"You  see  for  yourself  she  is  happy." 

"She  is  a  baby.  She  has  no  conception 
what  the  fellow  is.  I  don't  like  it,  nor  does 
Knod.  We  cannot  get  our  bearings.  Was 
there  no  trouble  when  Eck  left?" 

"None,  whatever,"  replied  the  countess, 
blandly. 

"It  is  deuced  queer.  I  'm  awfully  sorry  I 
did  not  see  him  at  the  last.  I  did  my  best, 
but  could  not  get  off  in  time  —  I  could  have 
sworn  —  " 

"Well?" 

"It  is  no  use,"  he  broke  out.  "You  know 
we  lieutenants  don't  believe  in  much,  but  we 
believe  in  love,"  and  restlessly  paced  the 
room. 


250  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"My  dear  Waldemar,"  returned  the  coun 
tess,  cool  and  clear.  "  Permit  me  to  inquire 
upon  what  Nelka  and  Eck  Flemming  would 
have  lived?  Besides,  so  far  as  I  know,  he 
said  nothing  explicit  to  her.  Would  you  have 
me  fling  her  at  him  ?  " 

He  stared  at  her  questioningly. 

"I  think  you  men  frequently  make  radical 
mistakes  in  your  premises.  Love,  in  its 
legitimate  place,  of  course,  is  an  excellent 
thing;  but  not  all  women  feel  as  intensely  as 
you  may  imagine.  Not  every  girl  is  a  poten 
tial  volcano.  Nelka  has  a  sweet,  affectionate, 
malleable  disposition,  — not  at  all  sensational. 
In  our  family,  on  either  side,  I  may  say,  we 
have  never,  happily,  produced  Brunhildas.  I 
do  not  doubt  she  will  be  very  happy  and 
content." 

"  With  that  old  rake !  " 

"  A  man  of  the  world,  a  man,  I  concede,  of 
large  experience  —  but  leading  at  present  a 
most  exemplary  life." 

"The  devil  he  does,"  muttered  Waldemar. 

"  Then  freshness  and  innocence  have  a  mar 
vellous  influence." 

"Swindle,"  he  murmured,  shaking  his  head. 

" At  all  events,"  she  added,  in  atone  that 


Heart's  Dearest  251 

meant  business,  "  may  T  beg  you  not  to  inter 
fere?  You  see  for  yourself,  Nelka  is  in  brill 
iant  health  and  spirits.  Ah,  if  you  lieutenants 
who  believe  in  love,"  tapping  him  playfully 
on  the  cheek,  "  were  a  little  less  self-indulgent, 
and  made  less  heavy  demands  upon  your  fam 
ilies  !  The  sad  truth  is,  no  young  men  need 
an  inexhaustibly  rich  brother-in-law  more 
than  you,  Benno,  and  Knod.  Particularly 
Benno.  But  I  suppose  you,  too,  have  not 
come  home  without  a  purpose,  eh?  Well, 
then,  don't  interfere.  The  beautiful  sister 
of  three  young  men  living  at  your  pace,  can 
hardly  enact  an  African  idyl.  What  if  she 
also  were  always  draining  your  poor  father? 
Do  you  happen  to  know  what  her  absolutely 
indispensable  toilettes  cost  a  year?  No,  no. 
Some  things  are  preposterous  from  the  start. 
All  is  for  the  best,  and  I  am  thankful  matters 
have  gone  off  so  pleasantly. " 

"I  cannot  help  it,  it's  a  beastly  shame," 
muttered  Waldemar,  gnawing  his  moustache; 
but  he  did  not  interfere,  and  when  certain 
revelations,  and  a  strong  appeal,  reached  him 
from  Africa,  it  was,  indeed,  too  late. 


252  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 


XIII 

IT  was,  Countess  Vallade  declared,  a  boulcver- 
sement  as  disastrous  as  unapprehended,  and, 
just  before  the  wedding,  annoying  beyond  ex 
pression.  Could  Nelka  but  have  been  per 
suaded  to  consent  to  an  earlier  day  than  the 
seventh  of  December;  but  in  that  one  respect 
she  had  been  inexorable.  When  they  urged 
her,  she  emerged  from  her  gentle  passivity  and 
became  actually  wild,  even  threatening  to  run 
away  and  hide  herself.  Clotilde,  whose  judg 
ment  and  influence  upon  her  sister  had  been 
most  invaluable,  advised  temporizing  still. 
Clotilde  suspected  Nelka  might  be  waiting  for 
something,  —  a  day,  an  anniversary  perhaps, 
and  what  it  might  bring.  Clotilde  dimly  re 
called  some  fancy  of  the  sort  in  her  own  senti 
mental  days.  Whatever  it  brought  was  laid 
with  similar  objects,  —  unopened  of  course; 
there  were  some  things  a  wellbrcd  woman 
never  could  stoop  to  do,  —  and  tied  with  a  blue 
ribbon  in  the  countess's  secret  drawer. 


Heart's  Dearest  2,53 

So  month  after  month  they  had  humored 
the  child,  —  inconvenient,  in  fact  precarious 
as  the  situation  was,  and  now  in  this  most 
inopportune  moment  Countess  Vallade  had 
to  discharge  Vroni  forthwith.  Not  only  in 
the  interests  of  respectability  and  morality 
must  she  go,  but  also  on  account  of  dearest 
Nelka,  who  had  a  curious  weakness  for  the  girl. 
Nelka  was  in  an  unaccountable  mood  as  her 
wedding  day  approached.  She  must  not  be 
farther  excited  or  disturbed.  She  ought  not 
to  be  informed  of  the  deplorable  circumstance. 
Vroni  was  perfection  in  her  department.  The 
countess  even  contemplated  re-engaging  her 
later, — provided  she  reformed  and  became 
steady ;  but  for  the  present  one  had  unfortu 
nately  no  choice.  Decency  demanded  the  sac 
rifice,  and  dearest  Nelka  must  be  screened. 

But  on  the  evening  Vroni  was  to  leave  the 
house,  Comtesse  Nelka,  in  ivory  white  silk  and 
on  her  fair  throat  five  rows  of  pearls,  the  gift 
of  Baron  Frege,  rushed  into  the  kitchen  and 
after  her  a  startled  valet  with  a  great  white-fur- 
lined  cape. 

"Where  is  she?  I  will  see  her!  "  she  said 
peremptorily,  and  Vroni  came. 

"  I  always  liked  you,  you  know,  Vroni,"  ex- 


254  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

claimed  the  comtesse  excitedly,  stretching  out 
her  bare  white  arms,  "  and  I  always  shall." 

The  two  girls  looked  an  instant  straight  in 
each  other's  eyes.  One  face  was  no  paler 
than  the  other.  Nelka  gave  a  little  sob.  At 
this  Vroni  shivered,  seized  the  extended  hands, 
and  kissed  them  many  times  with  quick  hot 
kisses,  but  spoke  no  word. 

Next  to  Tiber,  she  had  dreaded  seeing 
Nelka.  Vroni  thought  she  could  face  all  the 
world  better  than  Tiber's  honest  eyes.  It 
was  long  before  she  saw  them  again. 

"You  should  not  take  it  so  to  heart,  dear 
child,"  the  countess  said  late  that  night  to 
Nelka,  sobbing  in  her  bed.  "  You  may  believe 
me  when  I  assure  you  the  lower  classes  have 
not  our  power  of  keen  suffering.  Less  sensi 
tively  organized,  they  do  not  feel  as  we  do. 
I  've  seen  them  bury  their  children,  shed  no 
tear,  and  go  to  work.  It  is  terribly  shocking, 
Vroni's  case,  and  heartless  enough,  just  after 
her  parents'  death.  You  see  it  is  as  I  say, 
they  are  destitute  of  feeling.  Don't  cry  so, 
dear." 

But  Nelka  sobbed  on  inconsolable  —  for 
whom,  for  what,  and  whether  all  for  Vroni, 
she  did  not  say. 


Heart's  Dearest  255 

Jakobine  was  in  no  respect  surprised.  Had 
she  not  from  the  first  perceived  Vroni's  utter 
want  of  principle  ?  In  fact,  the  woman's 
satisfaction  in  having  her  prognostications  so 
incontrovertibly  justified  seemed  somewhat 
greater  than  even  her  condemnation  of  the 
culprit. 

Melchior  was  cut  to  the  heart,  —  wounded 
in  his  sham  respectability  as  well  as  in  his 
honest  family  pride,  and  in  his  affections ; 
for,  in  his  feeble  way,  he  was  fond  of  his  young 
sister.  His  affection,  it  is  true,  possessed  the 
stamina  of  limp  whalebone,  and  invariably  col 
lapsed  when  needed ;  still  it  was  a  species  of 
human  attachment,  and  it  suffered  because  of 
Vroni's  mischance. 

He  had  an  interview  with  Vincenz,  and, 
Jakobine  not  being  present,  said  what  he 
ought,  and  appeared  very  like  a  man.  Berg, 
all  in  all,  made  no  bad  impression.  He  ex 
pressed  undying  affection  for  Vroni,  and  the 
firm  intention  of  marrying  her  the  first 
moment  circumstances,  the  obstructive  force 
of  which  he  more  or  less  vaguely  explained, 
would  permit.  It  seemed  to  Melchior,  after 
he  had  partially  recovered  from  his  first 
shock,  that  if  his  club  associates  should  hear 


256  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

nothing  of  it,  and  happily  not  every  one  knew 
he  had  a  sister,  and  if  Sebastian  and  Sister 
Corona  were  not  informed,  at  all  events,  not 
immediately,  for  they  would  certainly  hold  him 
responsible,  the  matter,  bad  as  it  was,  might  be 
patched  and  smoothed  over.  Though  Berg 
hinted  at  temporary  embarrassment,  he  was 
a  high-class  workman  and  earned  handsomely. 
After  some  years  nobody  would  suspect  there 
had  been  the  slightest  irregularity.  Melchior 
had  attained  to  these  more  mellow  views  when 
he  went  to  see  Vroni  in  the  room  she  had 
rented  upon  leaving  the  Vallades. 

"  Take  a  chair,  brother,"  she  said,  sat  down 
herself,  and  watched  him. 

"  I  never  expected  to  see  this  day,"  he 
began  laboriously. 

"Now,  Melchior,"  she  returned,  her  tone 
hard  and  quiet,  "  I  know  all  thou  wouldst  say, 
and  have  no  mind  to  hear  it.  Suppose  thou 
holdest  thy  peace." 

He  hesitated  before  whimpering:  — 

"I  had  not  hoped  to  find  thee  unrepentant, 
Vroni." 

"  Am  no  sort  that  howls  in  full  church  to 
waken  pity !  "  she  retorted  defiantly. 

"  Jakobine  says  —  " 


Heart's  Dearest  257 

"  That  least  of  all  things  will  I  hear,  not 
being  of  an  over-patient  nature." 

Once  or  twice  he  tried  to  speak. 

She  interrupted :  — 

"  Canst  tell  me  naught.  Canst  change 
naught.  Waste  not  thy  words.  Leave  me 
to  go  my  way." 

He  rose  at  length  and  looked  at  her  help 
lessly,  such  affection  as  he  had  working  in  his 
face. 

"  I  feel  like  death  about  thee,  Vroni,"  he 
said  quite  simply.  "  Wast  such  a  merry  little 
maid  at  home." 

She  turned  pale. 

"And  father  —  " 

She  left  him  standing,  ran  swiftly  into  the 
next  room,  and  locked  the  door. 

Vroni  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  find 
lodgings  with  a  kindly  woman,  and  occasional 
work  at  a  pastry-cook's  in  the  vicinity.  Her 
evenings  were  spent  usually  at  some  place 
of  amusement  with  Vincenz.  She  seemed 
utterly  reckless,  and  greedy  for  excitement. 
The  society  of  coarse  and  boisterous  men  and 
women,  and  loud  gay  music  that  drowned 
reminiscence,  best  suited  her  mood ;  for  only 
amid  rollicking  noise  and  mad  laughter  could 
17 


258  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

she  for  brief  intervals  cease  to  see  the  pale 
stern  face  of  Dionysius  the  weaver,  always 
turned  away,  never  the  smile  of  content,  and 
the  beautiful  eyes  looking  down  in  love  upon 
her,  as  when  she  used  to  walk  hand  in  hand 
with  him  through  the  cornfields.  AcJi  Gott! 
Were  she  but  back  again  a  little  child  in  the 
old  days ;  wild,  naughty,  and  rebellious,  to  be 
regarded  severely,  sent  supperless  to  bed, 
chastised  with  the  big  pewter  spoon,  but  for 
given  at  last  and  loved  again.  Because  she 
could  not  bear  such  thoughts,  or  the  weaver's 
averted  face,  she  plunged  deeper  into  the 
mire. 

Long  before  her  child  was  born  she  had 
fathomed  Vincenz's  shallowncss  and  insin 
cerity.  This  was  her  worst  punishment.  Yet 
being  affectionate,  and  used  to  him  and  his 
pleasant  plausible  ways,  —  looking  forward  too 
to  a  whole  long  life  with  him,  she  made  the 
best  of  him,  as  women  will,  and  sought  to 
believe  in  him  even  \vhen  she  knew  him  to  be 
smoothly  deceiving  her,  —  thereby  becoming 
herself  less  honest  in  her  effort  to  live  down 
to  his  level. 

More  than  a  year  had  passed  and  still  they 
were  not  married.  Vinccnz's  reasons  varied 


Heart's  Dearest  259 

with  the  amount  of  liquor  he  drank,  which  was 
sometimes  excessive;  yet  in  no  mood,  how 
ever  unstable  in  other  respects,  was  he  other 
wise  than  amiable  and  devoted  to  her.  Her 
baby  daughter  she  was  fond  of,  but  not  im 
measurably.  She  tended  it  without  rapture, 
wistfully,  finding  in  it  no  joy  or  consolation. 
Maternal  love  dawns  slowly  in  some  hearts, 
popular  belief  to  the  contrary  notwithstand 
ing. 

It  was  a  strange  and  miserable  time.  Vin- 
cenz  was  sinking  lower  and  lower  in  her  esti 
mation —  she  herself,  alas,  also.  Sometimes 
she  longed  to  cut  those  wretched  years  of 
degradation  out  of  her  life,  as  one  amputates 
a  diseased  limb,  and  cleanse  herself  in  heal 
ing  waters.  But  for  the  most  part  she  but 
lived  on  day  by  day,  appearing  in  no  re 
spect  to  quarrel  with  her  destiny.  Whatever 
her  private  meditations,  no  face  was  gayer 
than  hers  at  the  jovial  suppers  they  frequented, 
no  tongue  more  ready  and  droll.  They  went 
often  to  theatres  too,  and  heard  much  music, 
which  both  loved. 

Yet  more  and  more  she  was  withdrawing 
into  an  inner  life  remote  from  Vincenz.  Of 
her  finer  self  he  had  no  appreciation,  and  she 


260  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

long  since  had  ceased  to  reveal  it  to  him.  Of 
her  father  she  never  spoke ;  but  night  and  day 
his  face,  still  unreconciled,  pursued  her.  She 
would  plead  with  him  by  the  hour,  entreat, 
explain  piteously  how,  step  by  step,  it  had  all 
come  about,  beg  him  to  see  how  she,  at  heart, 
loathed  her  life.  Not  once  had  he  relented. 
Melchior  she  saw  no  more,  except  in  the  dis 
tance,  towering  most  English  on  the  box. 
Once  she  sprang  quickly  into  a  shop  to  avoid 
meeting  Tiber,  striding  along  in  a  postman's 
uniform,  his  tow-head  well  up,  his  face  placid 
and  dutiful. 

Little  Anita  she  now  sent  to  the  care  of  her 
sister  Marie  and  Tante  Ursula,  since  a  second 
child  was  imminent.  Vincenz,  after  frequent 
and  too  copiously  explained  absences,  had  at 
last  taken  the  necessary  steps  toward  marriage. 
Vroni,  silent,  listless,  in  a  strangely  bitter 
mood,  listened  one  evening  to  his  complacent 
flippant  talk  of  the  banns  published  at  the 
Rathhaus,  and  of  the  civil  and  religious  cere 
monies  to  take  place  in  four  days. 

"  For  the  child's  sake,  I  fain  would  have  it  — 
since  't  is  better  for  it  to  be  born  in  wedlock," 
was  her  singular  remark. 

"For  naught  else,  Vroni?"   he  demanded 


Heart's  Dearest  261 

with  the  complacent  air  of  one  who  knows  the 
worth  of  what  he  bestows. 

"  Nay,  I  know  not." 

"  Wouldst  tease  me,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 

She  shook  her  head  gravely,  and  after  some 
moments  said  :  - 

"  Knowst  I  did  never  question  thee  or  seek 
to  hurry  thy  plans." 

"True,  Vroni.  There  was  never  one  like 
thee  for  not  pestering  a  man." 

"  Seest,  Vincenz,  my  Nita  has  no  father. 
Nor  will  my  poor  baby  soon  to  come  have 
but  a  scrap  of  one  to  cover  it  —  since  the  bless 
ing  of  holy  Church  but  barely  falls  before  its 
birth.  I  would  ask  thee  now,  since  we  twain 
are  to  be  man  and  wife,  why  hast  thou  de 
layed  so  long?  What  need  hadst  thou  to  do 
my  little  ones  a  wrong?  This  is  of  late  my 
thought." 

"  Why,  Vroni,  puttest  things  strangely,  upon 
my  word.  Thy  little  ones !  And  since  all 
will  so  soon  be  well,  why  so  solemn-eyed  ? 
I  scarce  see  in  thee  to-night  my  lightsome 
maid." 

"  I  would  know,  Vincenz." 

"  Have  I  not  told  thee  oft  enough?  I  was 
but  waiting  to  take  proper  rooms  and  live  as 


262  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

would  befit  thcc.  Besides  I  have  had  certain 
large  demands  to  meet,  through  no  fault  of 
my  own,  except  that  my  name  was  on  a  friend's 
note.  Such  things  do  oft  arrive  to  vex  a 
man." 

"Truly  it  seems  most  strange,"  she  said 
slowly,  "  since  I  do  earn  well,  and  gladly  would 
have  helped  thee." 

" Ac/i,  Vroni,  let  us  not  be  gloomy;  I  meant 
no  harm,  and  do  love  thee  beyond  reason." 

"Willst  not  speak  out  fair  to  me,  Vincenz? 
Trust  me,  and  I  '11  stand  by  thee ;  but  I  breathe 
ill  where  lies  are  in  the  air,"  and  she  brushed 
her  hand  with  a  curious  gesture  across  her  face, 
as  if  cobwebs  were  clinging  there. 

"  Hast  a  queer  mood  on  thee,  but  't  will 
pass,"  Vincenz  rejoined  indulgently,  and  chatted 
of  the  wedding  supper,  to  which  many  guests 
were  bidden.  Mclchior  had  promised  to  honor 
the  occasion  with  his  presence,  and  even  Jako- 
bine  was  deliberating.  After  all  a  wedding, 
any  wedding,  was  respectable. 

The  next  morning,  Vroni  received  an  anony 
mous  letter. 

"  Surely  thou  bclievest  not  such  an  inven 
tion?"  he  cried,  blustering,  as  she  showed  it 
him. 


Heart's  Dearest  263 

"  God  knows  I  would  fain  believe  thee  for 
my  children's  sake  " 

"  Anonymous  letters  always  lie." 

"  Mayhap,  for  't  is  a  false  way  to  strike  one 
down." 

"'Tis  some  fool  jealous  of  thy  pretty  looks 
and  minded  to  make  mischief,"  he  protested 
with  a  laugh. 

She  regarded  him  in  silence  with  intelligent 
eyes.  She  detected  the  false  note  in  his  voice. 
Suddenly  she  said:  — 

"  Vincenz,  I  pray  thee,  tell  me  the  truth  — 
this  once." 

"  I  've  naught  to  tell  thee,"  he  returned  sulkily. 

"  Trust  me,  Vincenz,"  she  pleaded. 

"  Come  now,  't  is  unlike  thee,  this  suspicion, 
this  jealousy." 

"  I  am  not  jealous.  I  want  but  truth 
between  us.  Seest,  Vincenz,  I  will  forgive 
thee  whatever  it  may  be,  so  thou  be  but  an 
honest  man  and  speakest  truth." 

Vincenz  had  fully  recovered  his  self-posses 
sion. 

"  Hast  naught  to  forgive,  my  dear,  except 
it  be  I  am  a  fool  about  thee." 

Brushing  her  face  with  the  palms  of  both 
hands,  she  cried  passionately:  — 


264  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"  Thou  makst  it  so  that  I  cannot  breathe ! 
Knowst  me  so  little  after  all  this  time  ?  How 
can  I  live  with  thee  in  falsehood?  We  twain 
stand  almost  before  God's  altar.  Vincenz,  I 
pray  thee,  for  my  children's  sake,  give  me 
true  speech." 

"  Nay,  Vroni,  calm  thyself.  Hast  never  yet 
made  me  such  a  scene,"  he  responded  coax 
ing  and  laughing  a  little.  "  Willst  marry  me 
fast  enough  "  —  his  glance  resting  significantly 
upon  her —  "  I  have  no  fear.  Why  makst  so 
big  strange  eyes?  But  it  matters  not.  I 
know  thou  'rt  not  well.  —  Show  me  thy  frock." 

On  her  bed  lay  her  wedding-dress,  the  cus 
tomary  black  cashmere  of  girls  of  her  station. 
Vincenz  took  from  a  box  he  had  brought  a 
wreath  of  waxen  myrtle  blossoms  for  her  hair 
and  a  spray  for  the  throat. 

"  Secst?  Now  shouldst  smile  a  bit  on  me. 
Ac/i  was ! "  he  exclaincd  lightly  in  response  to 
her  look  of  pain.  "  That 's  nothing.  Every 
body  wears  it." 

"  If  I  must  deck  myself,  I  will  wear  violets," 
she  answered  low,  and  remembered  those  few 
precious  ones  she  used  to  find  beneath  the 
hedge  and  show  with  jubilant  cries  to  the 
weaver  at  his  loom. 


Heart's  Dearest  265 

"  Old  women  wear  violets,"  laughed  Vin- 
cenz.  "Art  but  a  young  thing,  Vroni  —  and 
pretty  art  thou  beyond  all  I  've  seen,  so  that 
a  man  has  no  choice  but  to  love  thee." 

"  Dost  love  me  for  naught  else  but  my 
looks?"  she  asked,  her  gaze  fixed  upon  the 
myrtle  wreath  in  her  hand. 

"  Surely  such  looks  as  thine  are  the  best 
reason  in  the  world  to  love  a  woman,"  he 
replied,  and  kissed  her  heartily. 

"  He  would  have  me  wear  myrtle  before  the 
altar,"  she  was  thinking  with  sickening  disgust. 
"  T  is  what  he  is.  Myrtle  !  " 

She  stood  at  her  window  and  watched  him 
saunter  away  with  a  dandy  step  and  whistling 
a  lively  street  tune.  He  did  not  suspect  her 
suffering.  Whenever  she  turned  to  him  with 
any  message  from  within,  they  were  as  far 
apart  as  two  strangers  passing  each  other  with 
out  a  glance.  They  did  not  belong  together, 
never  had  belonged  together.  It  was  not 
only  that  his  words  were  lies.  He  himself  was 
a  lie  —  a  pleasant,  laughing,  wily,  hollow  lie. 

While  she  stood  still  holding  in  her  hands 
the  waxen  mockery,  a  woman,  breathless,  dis 
traught, —  threatening,  indeed  until  she  appre 
hended  her  rival's  hopeless  mood,  came  in 


266  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

and  laid  bare  Vincenz's  life,  her  own  and 
other  lives,  all  wretched  through  his  baseness, 
all  clamoring  for  redress  and  claiming  him. 

The  woman,  who  had  a  pretty  though  hag 
gard  face,  was  perhaps  four  or  five  and  twenty, 
Vroni  saw,  and  a  peasant  like  herself. 

She  heard  the  whole  tale  with  no  word  of 
interruption.  In  many  points  it  resembled 
her  own  experience. 

"Why  comst  so  late?  "  she  asked  at  length 
with  white  stiff  lips. 

The  girl  sobbed:  — 

"  I  heard  not  long  ago,  but  he  told  me 
't  was  not  true.  I  Ic  had  no  thought  of  mar 
riage  with  thcc." 

"  Truly,  't  was  like  him,"  Vroni  said,  deadly 
pale  but  quiet  save  for  her  bla/ing  eyes. 

"And  he  gave  me  the  money  for  our  pas 
sage  out,  and  said  he  would  follow  in  the  next 
weeks,  so  soon  as  he  could  close  up  his  affairs. 
But  I,  for  some  slight  reason  and  only  at  the 
last,  —  I  trusted  not  his  speech." 

"  Wait.  Let  me  think.  Didst  write  me  this 
letter?" 

"  Nay.     I  wrote  it  not." 

" '  T  is  well  for  thy  tale.  I  were  loath  to  be 
lieve  one  who  stabs  in  the  dark." 


Heart's  Dearest  267 

"  Canst  believe  me,"  said  the  girl,  simply. 

"I  believe  thee.  Hast  an  honest  way  with 
thee  though  thou  be  a  fool  like  me.  Mayhap 
after  all  the  writer  of  the  letter  is  another. 
Truly  a  tidy  wedding  company." 

The  girl  sobbed  on. 

"How  many  children  hast  thou?" 

"Three." 

"  Thy  youngest  —  of  what  age  ?  " 

The  girl  told  her.  It  was  rather  younger 
than  her  Nita.  Vroni  covered  her  face  with 
her  hand  and  sat  rigid  for  some  moments,  her 
soul  staggering. 

"Art  thou  poor?"  she  asked  at  length, 
abruptly. 

"  Ah,  yes,  that  I  am.  'T  is  little  he  can 
bring  me,  and  I  am  not  well,  being  worn  and 
weary." 

"  Thou  sayest  thou  dost  trust  no  smile,  no 
word,  no  good  deed  of  his?  " 

"Nay,  I  trust,  forgetting;  but  never  when  I 
am  in  fair  sense  and  do  remember." 

"Dost  like  him?" 

"  Did  he  take  me  out  and  make  much  of  me 
as  once  he  used,  yes,  surely  I  do  like  him 
fairly  well.  Hath  a  pleasant  way  with  him, 
when  he  's  not  angered." 


268  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"And  dost  want  him  still;  wouldst  take 
him?"  demanded  Vroni,  in  her  voice  an  icy 
contempt  —  for  the  woman,  for  herself,  for 
them  all,  for  the  ghastliness  of  life. 

"  Surely,  since  he  alone  can  give  me  back 
my  good  name." 

"  Ack  Gott!  "  exclaimed  Vroni,  and  laughed 
low  in  ineffable  dreariness. 

The  woman  looked  wonderingly  at  her. 

"Go  now,"  said  Vroni,  with  deadly  quiet; 
"  I  think  I  can  bear  thee  here  no  more.  Canst 
have  the  man.  Mayst  do  what  thou  willst  with 
him  without  fear  of  me.  Here,  take  this," 
thrusting  the  wedding  dress  into  the  aston 
ished  woman's  arms,  "  and  this,"  giving  her  the 
myrtle,  "  and  this,  and  this.  Nay,  thank  me 
not.  'T  is  thine  most  willingly.  Am  sorry 
for  thec,"  she  said  more  gently.  "  Truly  I 
never  meant  to  rob  thce.  But  go  now,  for 
'tis  not  in  my  nature  to  bear  more." 

After  some  hours  of  dry-eyed  still  misery, 
she  dragged  herself  into  a  church  and  knelt, 
shuddering,  behind  a  pillar. 

"  Father,"  she  prayed,  not  to  Him  in  heaven 
or  to  any  interceding  saint,  but  straight  from 
her  tortured  heart  to  Dionysius  the  weaver, 
"  seest,  here  will  I  stay  till  thou  dost  speak  to 


Heart's  Dearest  269 

me,  till  them  dost  help.  Hast  not  punished 
me  long  enough?  'T  is  more  than  two  years 
now  since  thou  hast  looked  on  me.  Yet  didst 
use  to  love  me  well ! 

"  Gaze  not  aside  and  far  above  me,  turn 
kind  eyes  on  me  and  forgive.  Have  pity  on 
thy  Madel !  Seest,  father,  am  a  rarely  wicked 
maid ;  have  been  so  without  head  or  care  or 
thought,  so  mad-like,  yet  never  did  I  truly 
mean  to  be  bad.  Must  know  that  well,  thy 
self,  father.  Art  so  wise." 

Behind  her  sheltering  pillar  she  crouched 
lower,  huddled  in  her  shawl.  The  church  was 
fragrant,  dim,  and  still.  Now  and  again  crisp 
footsteps  echoed  along  the  stone  floor.  She 
heard  nothing  but  the  cry  of  her  own  heart. 

"  Seest,  father,  there  is  my  Nita  and  this 
my  other  child.  So  ist's.  Were  Vincenz  an 
honest  man,  I  would  forgive.  Could  forgive 
his  lightness  and  his  feather-talk  when  my 
heart  is  heavy  as  lead,  could  forgive  the 
drink,  the  cards,  and  the  women ;  should 
mind  the  women,  but  could  bear  it  and  for 
give  and  be  a  trusty  wife  to  him  were  his 
thought  straight  and  clean,  and  his  tongue 
brave.  Seest  thyself,  father,  't  is  most  plain, 
I  and  my  children  cannot  house  with  lies. 


270  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

That  thou  couldst  never  abide.  For  such 
good  name  as  such  a  man  can  give,  I  care 
naught.  Can  he  then  give  me  that  which  he 
hath  not?  Shall  his  poor  name  shrive  me  for 
my  sin?  Nay,  'twere  not  sense  or  right  — 
'twere  a  most  monstrous  lie. 

"  Didst  use  once  to  press  thy  good  hands  on 
my  head.  Ah,  it  has  ached  so  and  had  such 
evil  thoughts  since  thou  didst  die  and  leave  thy 
little  maid  alone.  Canst  hold  out  so  rarely 
long  against  me?  Thee  I  would  forgive  for 
aught  that  thou  couldst  do.  Once  couldst 
look  stern  for  a  while,  yet  afterwards  didst 
ever  comfort  me.  Comfort  me  now,  my 
father.  Sore  am  I  driven  —  helpless,  broken, 
and  know  not  whither  to  go. 

" 'T  was  from  the  very  first  he  lied  to  me; 
but  I  was  careless,  and  light  of  head,  and 
comprehended  not.  Never  an  hour  since  I 
knew  him  but  he  has  deceived  me.  All  that 
seemed  pleasantness  was  foul.  And  the  other 
girl  and  her  poor  children,  and  other  women 
and  theirs,  he,  all  smiles  and  lies  for  many 
women,  yet  caring  naught !  'T  is  shame  to 
be  a  man,  and  wound  hearts  so !  And  bitter 
shame  is  on  me  and  thee  and  thy  good  name. 
Yet  did  I  drown  myself,  Nita  might  miss  for 


Heart's  Dearest  271 

somewhat  I  could  give.  'T  is  this  that  is  the 
end  of  my  thought,  howe'er  I  do  turn  it  long 
hours  in  my  mind. 

"Dost  mind  thee  of  that  witch-night  long 
ago,  when  I  was  small,  and  great  winds  shook 
the  cottage  till  all  upon  the  shelves  did 
quake  ?  Most  gently  did  the  mother  cheer 
Brindle,  and  bid  her  be  of  a  stout  heart, 
and  after  did  stand  and  speak  her  mind,  'and 
make  a  giant  shadow  on  the  wall.  And  gruff 
Bastian  did  fume  and  rage  at  thee.  Wast 
mending  thy  shuttle,  and  stooping  o'er  it  in 
thy  hands.  Then  didst  raise  thy  head,  and 
say  there  be  steep  paths  and  no  hand  near. 
'  Poor  lad,  poor  lad, '  didst  say  full  soft,  and 
wast  sorry  for  him  with  thine  eyes.  Thou, 
father,  't  is  thy  Vroni  on  the  jagged  path,  and 
knows  not  which  way  to  turn.  'T  is  her  heart 
that 's  faint,  't  is  her  head  that 's  wild.  Willst 
not  yet  say  poor  maid  ?  nor  lay  thine  hand 
upon  the  aching  head?  Willst  ever  turn 
away  ? 

"  Yet  art  listening.  Dost  but  make  as 
though  thou  heardst  not.  'T  is  to  try  me,  I 
know  full  well.  Yet  I  pray  thee  in  thy 
mercy,  not  over  long  now  in  this  hour,  — not 
beyond  thy  child's  last  strength  which  is  so 


272  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

spent,  though  heavy  chastisement  do  I  deserve. 
Hearken  while  I  do  tell  thee  all. 

"  My  Nita  I  was  loving  not  enough  at  first. 
I  mind  me  I  was  frozen-like.  Now  I  love 
every  hair  on  her  soft  head.  Yet  this  child 
more,  —  this  most,  —  for  this  one  is  my 
sin. 

"Save  God  above,  and  His  great  saints  and 
angels,  so  far  far  off  from  such  as  me,  thou, 
father,  thou  alone  dost  hear,  shallst  read  my 
heart.  Did  no  folk  know,  I  'd  scarce  to  shame 
myself  for  Nita.  Seest,  I  was  so  heedless 
and  so  young.  I  '11  not,  indeed,  make  mean 
excuse.  Yet  truly  I  did  seek  and  foresee  no 
harm  at  all,  and  had  no  evil  thought,  save 
giddily  to  run  about  for  music,  mirth,  and 
good  cheer. 

"But  for  this,  my  poor,  poor  child,  I  do 
shame  myself,  before  my  very  self,  and  not 
before  men  who  are  now  naught  to  me.  For 
I  had  learned  to  know  what  Vinccnz  was, 
though  I  did  shut  my  eyes  and  make  as 
though  I  saw  not.  In  my  most  inner  thought 
I  did  know  and  understand,  yet  lived  on  in 
the  mire  being  once  therein.  And  because 
this  child  is  shame  and  sin,  I  do  love  it  with 
a  pity  high  as  heaven  for  the  wrong  that  I  do 


Heart's  Dearest  273 

give  it  with  its  life.  Through  this  child, 
too,  I  love  my  Nita  better.  This  child,  my 
sin,  is  waking  me  to  love  that  none  may 
measure  save  thou  that  once  didst  love  me 
so.  Truly,  this  child  doth  teach  me  wider 
thought. 

"  Here  do  I  lie  till  thou  dost  take  me  back. 
I  cannot  live  without  thee.  Have  grown 
worse  and  worse  since  thou  hast  ceased  to 
smile.  Help  thy  poor  Madel.  Be  good  to 
me.  Love  me  again.  Seest  not,  it  but  makes 
me  bad  when  thou  art  stern  so  long?  Ah, 
we  do  need  thee,  I  and  my  Nita  and  this,  my 
sad  heart's  child!  For  their  sakes  forgive. 
Wast  ever  fair  and  straight  in  thy  ways. 
Thinkst  thou  to  punish  them  for  their  mother's 
fault  ?  Then  for  once  hast  not  right  and  rea 
son  on  thy  side,  and  that  I  tell  thee  to  thy 
face !  Ah !  come  to  us.  Ah !  leave  us  not. 
Show  me  the  way  my  weary  feet  must  tread. 
Abide  with  me  and  mine  that  I  may  find 
strength  to  go  on,  and  never  grieve  thee  more. 
Vatcr,  licb  Vdtcrchen  !  " 

It  was  the  blind  organist's  hour. 

He  sat  in  his  accustomed  place,  and  his 
soul  spoke. 

His  loneliness,  his  sorrow  welled  forth,  and 
18 


274  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

filled  the  silence  of  the  lofty  vaults.  His 
slow  plaint  trembled  on  the  incense-laden  air, 
hovered  over  the  few  isolated  penitents,  and 
compassed  the  prostrate  woman  round  about 
with  the  sweet  marvel  of  its  lamentation. 

She  ceased  to  shudder  and  to  sob.  She  lay 
quite  still,  and  waited. 

The  blind  musician  questioned,  rebelled, 
and  stormed.  At  the  very  foot  of  the  altar 
surged  and  crashed  his  sea  of  tumult,  and 
broke  in  slow  innumerable  sobbing. 

Vroni  lay  motionless  as  death. 

Above  the  mighty  moving  flood  of  tone,  a 
voice  began,  calm,  divine,  compassionate.  It 
ceased  and  spoke  again.  It  responded  piti 
fully  to  the  many  sobbing  strains.  Sighing, 
one  by  one  died  away  their  moans,  dominated 
by  the  inexorable  insistence  of  its  peace, —  the 
sacred  and  inscrutable  peace  of  the  human 
soul  that  through  agony  has  learned  its 
lesson  of  submission.  And  amid  victorious 
heavenly  harmonies,  Vroni  at  last  felt  the 
loved  hand,  so  long  withdrawn,  pressed  on 
her  throbbing  head.  Again  the  weaver  stood 
with  her  and  searched  her  face  with  the  old 
gentle  questioning  and  no  more  sternness  in 
the  dear  brown  eyes. 


Heart's  Dearest  275 

The  blind  man  played  on.  Vroni  knelt 
long.  Into  her  thought  came  light  and  unity. 
She  saw  her  way,  her  immediate  way,  stretch 
ing  stern  before  her,  and  undismayed  set  off 
upon  its  thorns. 


276  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 


XIV 

WHEN  young  Vroni  was  dancing  innocently 
along  the  short  cut  to  perdition,  no  hand  was 
stretched  out  to  restrain  her,  no  voice  warned. 
While  she  lived  a  loose,  demoralizing  life  in 
quasi-marriage,  and  an  environment  of  more 
or  less  ribald  companions  and  tawdry  pleas 
ures,  her  intimate  censors  were  less  shocked 
than  they  pretended,  and  left  her  to  her  own 
devices.  The  avowed  intention  of  the  young 
couple  to  commit  matrimony  sooner  or  later 
lent  a  species  of  domestic  halo  to  their  irregu 
lar  relationship,  and  in  point  of  social  morals 
distinguished  them  indeed  from  the  majority 
of  their  motley  associates. 

But  when,  with  a  strong  spiritual  revolt, 
she  shook  off  childishness,  bewilderment,  and 
inertia,  rose  from  the  slime  into  which  she 
had  fallen,  consciously  willed  to  return  to  the 
old  cleanliness,  and  bravely  assumed  the  bur 
den,  for  life,  of  the  two  luckless  little  memo- 


Heart's  Dearest  277 

rials  of  their  parents'  selfishness,  vast  and 
fierce  was  the  storm  of  condemnation  she 
evoked,  and  all  her  little  world  plunged 
promptly  into  her  affairs  to  remonstrate, 
polemize,  and  interfere. 

None  could  comprehend  her.  She  stood 
alone,  but  set  her  mouth  doggedly  and  never 
wavered.  In  her  own  heart  she  knew  that 
Dionysius  the  weaver  stood  with  her,  shoul 
der  to  shoulder,  and  he  was  a  host.  Yet  a 
certain  lovely  lady  of  high  degree,  and  most 
irreproachably  established  in  life,  grown  weary 
and  languid  now,  and  deathly  sick  at  heart, 
despite  youth,  beauty,  rank,  and  wealth, 
would,  had  she  but  known,  have  countenanced 
Vroni's  startling  course,  — would,  had  she 
but  the  courage,  have  done  likewise  herself. 
There  was  another,  also,  unchanged  in  hum 
ble  fidelity.  In  our  worst  and  most  sorrow 
ful  moments  we  have  far-off,  unsuspected 
friends. 

"  Art  mad,  stark  mad  !  "  exclaimed  Vincenz, 
when  she  announced  her  purpose. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  It  is  impossible!" 

"Willstsee." 

"  But  it  is  bad  of  thee ;  nay,  worse,   inde- 


278  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

cent,  to  cheat  thy  children  of  a  father,  since  I 
be  ready  and  willing." 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide  with  a  wonderful 
silent  reply. 

"Dost  hate  me?  "  he  asked  in  agitation. 

"Nay,"  she  answered  wearily;  "but  I 
should  hate  thee  and  myself  did  I  now 
remain. " 

"But  I  love  thee,  Vroni!  I  want  thee. 
I  '11  not  have  it.  I  '11  prevent  it.  Art  mine 
by  good  rights,  and  I  '11  keep  thee!  "  he  cried 
in  great  excitement. 

"Dost  like  me  in  thy  way,  I  know,"  she 
replied  with  dreary  patience;  "but  'twill 
pass.  Willst  get  over  it,  Vincenz,  once  I  be 
gone." 

"  I  care  for  none  save  thee.  Every  man 
has  his  little  affairs.  But  I  never  loved  a 
woman  as  I  do  thee.  Art  more  to  me,  art 
different,  I  swear  it!"  His  voice  was  warm 
and  strongly  agitated. 

She  moved  about,  collecting  her  belong 
ings,  and  answered  nothing. 

"'T  is  thy  condition.  Willst  later  come  to 
thy  senses;"  but  her  clear  and  steady  gaze 
disproved  his  words. 

"I'll    fetch    thy    brother,"    he    cried,    dis- 


Heart's  Dearest  279 

mayed.  "I'll  get  the  priest  to  come  and 
reason  with  thee.  I  '11  get  a  doctor.  'T  is 
unheard  of.  The  guests  bidden,  the  supper 
ordered,  the  marriage  hour  set,  and  thou  at 
the  last  moment  meanst  not  to  marry  me 
when  I  am  minded  to  marry  thee  and  set 
thee  straight  and  right  again.  Vroni !  Vroni ! 
Canst  not  see  ?  'T  is  mad,  't  is  craziness !  " 

The  man's  face  was  white  and  in  his  voice 
were  deep  vibrations  which  neither  she  nor 
he  had  ever  heard. 

"Vincenz,"  she  reminded  him,  "could  have 
slipped  away  with  no  word,  yet  was  minded 
to  be  honest  with  thee.  Seest  I  go  not  in 
anger.  Let  us  not  quarrel.  Let  me  depart 
in  peace.  I  wish  thee  well,  but,  by  the  liv 
ing  God,  I  '11  never  marry  thee  or  house  with 
thee  in  any  wise." 

"  But  why,  why?"  he  cried,  trembling  and 
hoarse. 

"Have  told  thee,  Vincenz.  'Tis  the  smil 
ing  lies.  I  '11  live  with  them  no  more,  nor 
suffer  my  children  in  their  tender  years  to 
feed  upon  such  food." 

He  begged,  implored,  threatened,  flattered, 
coaxed,  reasoned,  promised,  knelt,  and  wept. 
He  pleaded  well  and  ill,  truth  and  falsehood. 


280  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

He  fetched  others,  all  who  would  come,  to 
bombard  her:  her  brother  first,  and  Jakobine, 
whom  this  amazing  crisis  unscrewed  from  her 
holy  pedestal ;  the  good-hearted  landlady  who 
liked  the  poor  young  thing  and  wanted  to 
see  her  "nicely  settled  in  life,  and  such  a 
pleasant-spoken,  smart  young  man,  to  be 
sure!"  Even  an  old  solicitor  from  a  dusty 
den  over  the  way,  to  expound  law ;  and,  finally, 
the  good  priest,  whose  services  were  spurned. 
To  their  arguments,  moral,  religious,  mate 
rial,  legal,  and  purely  personal,  to  all  their 
oratory  and  denunciation,  she  turned  a  stony 
face,  and  answered  seldom  a  word. 

But  when  Jakobine,  voicing  the  unanimous 
conviction  of  the  assembly,  declared  that 
Vroni,  in  deliberately  refusing  the  rehabilitat 
ing  marital  establishment,  so  gallantly  prof 
fered  by  the  abandoned  bridegroom-elect,  and 
in  thus  ineradicably  confirming  her  shame, 
would  be  guilty  of  the  worst  sin  of  all  in  her 
career  of  open  vice,  she  started  up,  a  flaming 
spirit  in  her  drawn  and  pallid  face:  — 

"  The  sin's  not  now, "  she  flung  back  sternly. 
"  The  sin  was  long  ago  —  not  now.  And,  may 
hap,  Jakobine,  mayhap—  "  long  and  steadily 
with  those  accusing  eyes,  and  with  keen  in- 


Heart's  Dearest  281 

telligencc  in  spite  of  her  wretchedness,  she 
stood  scanning  her  elderly  and  hostile  kins 
woman,  — •  "  Nay,  wouldst  never  understand. 
Of  what  use  then  to  bandy  words?"  she  said 
quietly,  turned  away,  and  dropped  into  her 
attitude  of  passive  endurance. 

Once  again,  this  time  to  Melchior,  —  pathet 
ically  pointing  out  that  sooner  or  later,  do 
what  she  might,  her  children  would  discover 
her  secret,  and  scorn  her,  — she  retorted,  with 
fiery  scorn :  — 

"Dost  think  I  '11  duck  and  twist  and  sneak 
like  men?  Nay,  from  my  lips  and  none 
other  shall  my  children  hear  the  truth,  and, 
if  they  love  me  they'll  forgive."  After  a 
moment,  in  the  pause  of  consternation  that 
followed  her  amazing  utterance,  a  poignant 
tenderness  illumined  her  haggard  features, 
and  she  added,  low  and  firm :  — 

"And  they  will  love  me!" 

What  in  all  this  may  have  stirred  the  rusty 
springs  of  Jakobine's  benevolence,  compas 
sion,  or  other  occult  quality,  is  indetermi 
nable;  but  advancing  with  austere  decision 
from  the  group,  she  now  proclaimed,  and  it 
was  much  for  her :  — 

"Vroni,  willst  do  the  thing  thou  oughtst, 


282  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

and  marry  him  forthwith,  I  '11  greet  thee 
henceforth,  and  be  seen  with  thee  as  though 
naught  unseemly  and  unsavory  e'er  had  been." 

The  girl  gave  her  another  strange,  long 
look,  and  answered  slowly  :  — 

"When  I  do  think  of  thee,  I  '11  try  to  call 
to  mind  that  thou  didst  speak  these  words." 

Their  rhetoric  and  patience  exhausted,  in 
all  sincerity  horrified  by  her  utter  immorality, 
they  left  her  as  they  found  her —  inexorable. 
Yet  one  and  all  hoped  and  believed  with 
Vincenz  that  coming  events  would  break  her 
obstinacy,  and  heal  her  depraved  and  assuredly 
diseased  notions. 

On  the  eve  of  her  rejected  wedding-day,  she 
withdrew  to  an  hospital,  where,  in  her  care 
less  days,  she  had  once  seen  women  walking 
and  sewing  in  a  large  garden.  She  had  still 
some  time  to  wait,  but  was  much  broken  in 
strength,  and  sadly  in  need  of  care  and  refuge. 
So  she,  too,  walked  and  sat  in  the  pleasant 
garden,  and  fashioned  the  weaver's  fine  linen 
into  tiny  garments,  and  suffered  various  acute 
miseries  of  soul  and  body  attendant  upon  the 
birth  of  her  boy,  Dion. 

Turning  again  yearningly  toward  ancient 
landmarks,  desiring,  too,  in  case  of  her  death, 


Heart's  Dearest  283 

to  recommend  to  mercy  her  poor  little  Nita, 
she  wrote  from  the  hospital  to  her  brother 
Sebastian  and  to  Sister  Corona  some  rather 
sturdy  little  letters,  for  even  now  she  was  not 
good  at  whimpering.  She  took  her  pen  in 
hand  to  pen  them  the  usual  amenities :  she 
stated  that,  Gottlob,  she  was  very  well,  and 
hoped  they  were  the  same  and  also  enjoying 
very  good  health.  After  which,  she  penned 
them  the  naked  truth.  In  few  words  she 
stated  her  case,  —  her  past,  her  present,  her 
contemplated  future;  and  she  humbly  en 
treated  their  pardon. 

Sebastian  responded  with  fulminations,  and 
exhorted  —  nay,  commanded  —  her  to  marry 
Vincenz  Berg.  The  shadowy  nun,  no  less, 
from  faultless  but  loveless  heights,  adjured 
her  erring  sister  to  take  the  one  step  of  repa 
ration.  Melchior  journeyed  to  the  convent, 
and  the  three  in  council  indited  more  letters, 
in  which  the  worthy  Sebastian  disposed  some 
what  freely  of  the  wrath  of  God,  and  flung 
into  his  utterances  an  ex-cathedra  fectus. 

Vroni  grew  whiter  as  she  read.  It  was  all 
quite  true.  She  was  a  sinner,  an  outcast,  a 
disgrace  to  them,  and  the  name  was  honest 
save  for  her.  She  was  bad,  and  they  were 


284  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

good.  Yet  she  knew  no  shadow  of  swerving. 
She  wrote  no  more. 

Melchior  appeared  once,  as  accredited  envoy 
of  the  outraged  family,  a  dreary  ambassador, 
visibly  shrivelled  as  to  affection,  a  mere  totter 
ing  hanger-on  and  slave  of  conventionality. 
Hearing  her  curt  last  word,  he  groaned  and 
went  out.  In  due  time,  with  what  in  fact 
might  almost  be  termed  mundane  promptness, 
Sister  Corona  and  Sebastian  wrote  they  would 
pray  for  Vroni's  soul,  but  never  see  her  in  the 
flesh  again  —  except  as  the  wife  of  Vincenz 
Berg  —  which  was  practically  an  eternal  fare 
well,  their  ultimate  destination  beyond  the 
tomb  being  so  remote  from  hers.  In  conclu 
sion,  Sebastian,  for  a  man  engaged  chiefly  in 
agricultural  pursuits,  executed  a  very  fair 
species  of  Bull  of  Excommunication,  —  none, 
save  a  certain  great  tragedian,  ever  better 
launched  the  curse  of  Rome. 

Vincenz  prowled  anxiously  around  the  hos 
pital,  where  he  was  denied  admittance.  In 
furiated  by  her  course,  infatuated  with  her 
still,  more  keenly  alive  to  her  worth  now 
that  he  had  lost  her,  wounded  too,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  vanity  of  conquering  hero  he 
vowed  he  would  marry  her  yet.  It  was  but  a 


Heart's  Dearest  285 

freak  of  illness,  he  jauntily  assured  Melchior, 
and  even  boasted  with  vague  suggestiveness 
of  tidings  from  the  hospital,  messages  of  con 
trition  and  renewed  constancy.  Melchior 
feebly  responded  they  would  hope  for  the 
best.  His  sympathies,  everybody's  sympa 
thies,  were  with  Berg,  who  obviously  was  the 
injured  party.  He  had  erred.  Well,  young 
men  would  be  young  men.  But  he  was  hand 
somely  and  generously  eager  to  make  amends. 
He  was  behaving  well,  and  he  stood  for  law, 
order,  good  citizenship,  morality,  and  religion. 
Wretched  girls  all  over  the  world  were  left 
in  the  lurch.  One  was  used  to  the  trite  spec 
tacle,  and  they  had  but  themselves  to  thank 
for  their  misery.  But  this  novel  turning  of 
the  tables  upon  the  man,  the  unique,  uncon 
scious  irony  of  Vroni's  attitude,  naturally 
roused  a  startled  indignation. 

Praying  she  might  never  look  upon  his  face 
again,  Vroni,  still  pale  and  weak,  her  baby  in 
her  arms,  stole  away  by  night  to  Hexenfels. 
What  it  cost  her,  thus  to  confront  her  village, 
would  have  nerved  an  army.  But  the  village 
folk,  passive  and  shy  toward  the  changed  and 
citified  girl,  molested  her  not  at  all.  What 
ever  were  her  sister  Marie's  thoughts,  she  was 


286  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

a  gentle  creature,  and  uttered  no  reproach. 
Old  Tante  Ursula  was  less  reticent.  Yet 
even  she,  after  days  of  aggrieved  and  Chris 
tian  denunciation,  gradually  got  an  inkling  of 
the  amazing  truth  that  this  sombre,  resolute 
girl-woman  of  twenty,  mute  under  attack, 
unmoved  by  argument  as  the  great  crag  by 
butterflies,  making  with  stern  dignity  and 
much  foresight  the  most  minute  arrangements 
for  the  well-being  of  her  two  unsanctioned 
babies,  could  be,  in  spite  of  facts  and  the 
explicit  assertions  of  her  wrathful  brothers, 
no  light  o'  love. 

; 'T  is  ever  the  same  little  Vroni,"  mused 
the  old  woman,  in  secret,  "  the  naughtiest  but 
the  dearest  of  them  all." 

Although  never  by  word  or  look  condoning 
the  girl's  reprehensible  and  lawless  course 
in  refusing  to  wipe  the  foul  stain  from  the 
family  honor  and  her  poor  helpless  children, 
Tante  Ursula,  rigidly  devout  yet  mellowed 
by  great  age,  finally  abandoned  scathing  ora 
tory,  was  good  to  Vroni  during  her  brief  stay, 
and  in  her  absence  spoke  many  an  indulgent 
word  for  her,  while  those  two  little  waifs 
became  the  old  woman's  all-absorbing  care, 
her  consolation,  and  her  joy. 


Heart's  Dearest  287 

The  girl-mother,  in  manner  matter-of-fact 
and  unemotional,  ironclad  in  stubborn  peasant 
pride,  gave  never  a  sign  of  the  storms  and 
agonies  within.  But  the  Witch-Tooth,  the 
pile  of  fagots,  the  crooked  plum-trees,  the 
forest,  the  corn-fields,  and  the  great  night- 
winds  could  have  told  another  story.  Yet 
she  gained  strength  wandering  among  the  old 
haunts,  and  from  her  mountain  fastnesses 
took  with  keen  eyes,  sound  judgment  and 
indomitable  tenacity,  her  new  life-bearings. 

The  babies  were  best  off  here;  therefore,  for 
the  present,  here  should  they  stay.  Hunger 
ing  for  them  afar  off  would  be  a  part  of  her 
punishment.  Here  they  would  have  pure  air 
and  sure  kindness,  be  screened  from  unfriendly 
notice,  —  indeed,  amid  Marie's  brood,  quite 
inconspicuous.  Every  Easter  she  would  come 
to  them,  oftener  if  possible,  but  that  was 
scarcely  probable ;  for  all  her  earnings  were 
spent,  she  must  stay  at  her  post  and  work 
hard.  The  regular  monthly  payment  would 
be  cheering  to  Marie,  who  saw  coin  rarely, 
tailoring  not  being  a  lucrative  business  in 
Hexcnfels.  Vroni  reckoned  what  she  must 
earn  annually,  what  use  for  her  own  bare 
needs,  what  for  their  comfort  and  growing 


288  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

necessities,  —  more  and  more  each  year,  —  and 
what  she  ought  to  set  aside  in  the  savings 
bank  against  the  time  they  would  need  it 
when  learning  their  trades,  or  against  an  evil 
day. 

From  marriage  she  had  excluded  herself 
forever,  had  broken  with  tradition  and  train 
ing,  and  wrenched  herself  loose  from  the  close- 
clinging  notions  and  prejudices  dear  to  her 
class.  The  entire  significance  of  this  painful 
process  was  even  now  unrevealed  to  her;  but 
each  day  threw  fresh  light  upon  the  long, 
hard,  lonely,  endless  road  stretching  on  before 
her.  But  whether  delusion  or  revelation  she 
believed  that  she  was  walking  it  with  the 
direct  blessing  and  sympathy  of  Dionysius 
the  weaver,  and  to  him,  grievously  far  away 
yet  nearer  than  the  uncomprehending  visible 
world,  she  confided  her  most  trivial  plans. 

The  great  winds  of  the  home  country  not 
only  blew  new  life  and  strength  into  her,  but 
seemed  to  cleanse  her  inner  being,  and  inter 
pose  their  purifying  breath  between  her  soul 
and  that  evil  time  in  ever-receding  distance. 
Yet  when  she  clasped  both  children  in  her 
arms,  Anita  winsome,  sunny,  a  palpable  de 
light,  while  Dion  lay  a  dark,  soft  mystery 


Heart's  Dearest  289 

upon  her  breast,  she  was  conscious  of  bliss 
transcending  bitterness;  and  not  to  elude 
remorse  and  shame  or  torture  a  thousand 
fold  more  cruel  than  that  she  had  endured, 
would  she  annul  the  two  fateful  years  that  had 
borne  these  precious  fruits.  From  them,  her 
reproach  among  men,  proceeded  a  sacred  joy 
and  a  lofty  purpose,  and  with  a  deep  and 
hitherto  unknown  awe  she  marvelled  at  the 
subtle  shaping  hand  of  destiny. 

"  God  willing,  I  will  keep  them  straight, 
father.  They  shall  be  wholesome-minded  like 
to  thee.  Nita  shall  not  be  left  alone,  a  young 
thing,  wild  and  ignorant  of  life.  For  her 
protection  there  is  that  which  she  shall  hear, 
—  nay,  I  will  not  shrink.  And  Dion  shall 
speak  the  truth.  I  undertake  it,  father. 
Thank  God,  they  have  thy  eyes,  not  his. 
Thank  thee,  my  mother,  and  my  master,  I 
know  my  work  and  can  support  them." 

Thus  the  great  saints  of  her  private  calendar 
came,  belated,  to  their  dues,  and  she  blessed 
them  daily  for  their  good  works,  as  she, 
mournful  yet  resolute,  left  her  beloved  moun 
tains —  thrice  dear,  now  that  they  guarded 
her  treasures  —  and  entered  upon  the  grave 
and  weary  years  of  her  atonement. 
19 


290  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

Meanwhile,  a  lovely  lady  of  high  degree, 
upon  whom  the  winds  of  heaven  were  not 
suffered  to  blow  roughly,  whose  marriage  was 
immaculate  before  Church  and  State,  moaned 
in  her  heart,  unceasingly  :  — 

"  I  cannot  dig,  to  beg  I  am  ashamed.  I 
have  not  learned  to  work.  I  could  not  teach 
the  youngest  child.  I  know  not  whither  to 
go.  I  am  too  cowardly  to  die.  Yet  there 
is  nothing  I  would  fear  to  do,  or  suffer,  or 
attempt,  with  Eck.  But  he  is  silent,  and 
Africa  is  far.  My  life  is  hideous.  It  is  a 
monstrous  thing  that  girls  are  left  so  blind. 
Had  I  but  known  !  " 

And  none  at  Court  wore  toilettes  such  as 
hers,  and  her  three  brothers  kept  racers. 


Heart's  Dearest  291 


XV 


PROMINENT  among  Vroni's  unforeseen  trials 
was  the  extreme  persistence  of  Vincenz  Berg's 
pursuit.  On  his  account  she  left  comfortable 
situations  and  pleasant  towns.  He  traced  her 
course,  followed  her  from  house  to  house,  from 
city  to  city,  compromised  her  among  strangers, 
and  agitated  her  with  odious  scenes.  He  went 
down  on  his  knees  and  implored  her  to  marry 
him,  whined,  wailed,  shouted,  swore,  and  prom 
ised  amendment  beyond  her  loftiest  ideals. 
Doubtless  for  the  most  part  he  was  in  his  way 
sincere,  although  he  usually  appeared  in  some 
what  alcoholic  temper. 

He  had  lost  his  excellent  position  and  was 
evidently  drinking  habitually.  For  both  of 
these  misfortunes  he  reproached  her;  she  was, 
he  said,  destroying  him.  Materially  changed 
he  was,  unquestionably;  one  had  not  imagined 
a  weak  man,  thwarted,  could  react  with  such 
force.  Sometimes  he  threatened  to  blow  his 
brains  out  and  hers  and  the  babies'.  She 


292  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

could  not  sec  him  thus  demoralized  without 
a  haunting  sense  of  guilty  responsibility,  as  an 
unwilling  accomplice  in  his  ruin.  Altogether 
he  succeeded  often  enough  in  making  of  her  a 
miserable,  sickened  woman,  and  spiritless  until 
she  spurred  herself  on  with  the  thought  of 
the  sanctity  of  the  cause  for  which  she  was 
fighting. 

A  frightened  woman  she  became, —  even  she, 
—  dreading  a  bright  market  on  a  sunny  morn 
ing,  glancing  furtively  about  as  she  crossed 
herself  and  knelt  upon  entering  her  church. 
Formerly,  with  the  frolic  expectancy  of  Hide 
and  Seek,  or  Catch,  she  had  been  alert  for  the 
whimsical  suddenness  of  that  jaunty  apparition. 
Her  pantomime  of  quick,  exhaustive  scrutiny 
of  portal,  passage,  and  arcade  was  still  the 
same,  but,  ah !  the  terrible  irony  of  the  essen 
tial  change  in  her  informing  spirit. 

After  a  couple  of  years,  however,  this  terror 
persecuted  her  no  longer.  Months  passed  in 
which  she  neither  saw  nor  heard  him.  Later, 
vague  rumors  of  him  reached  her.  He  had 
married  a  Protestant  —  was  rich  —  was  di 
vorced —  had  gone  to  America.  Then  at  last 
she  breathed  freely  once  more  and  found  her 
full  strength. 


Heart's  Dearest  293 

In  a  monetary  sense,  she  prospered  beyond 
her  hopes.  Her  deposits  in  the  savings  bank 
were  encouraging,  her  payments  to  Marie  reg 
ular  and  liberal,  the  children  well-fed  and  well- 
clothed.  When,  every  Easter,  Vroni  appeared 
in  Hexenfels,  plainly  clad,  grave,  and  self-pos 
sessed,  the  repose  and  determination  upon  her 
handsome  face,  together  with  the  impressive- 
ness  of  her  severe  little  matronly  bonnet,  were 
gradually  and  subtly  tending  toward  reinstat 
ing  her  in  public  esteem,  —  giving  her,  as  it 
were,  a  not  ignoble  place  apart,  and  almost  the 
vicarious  dignity,  say,  of  a  widow. 

"  '  T  is  the  money,"  thought  Vroni,  shrewdly 
and  without  bitterness,  for  she  was  beginning 
to  observe  manifold  phases  of  life.  Yet  it 
could  but  soothe  her  cruelly  wounded  pride  to 
be  treated  with  growing  respect  by  her  home 
people. 

Each  spring  Anita  ran  to  her  with  open 
arms,  was  glad,  pretty,  winning,  and  proud  to 
have  a  mother.  The  child  was  docile,  blithe, 
and  full  of  prattle,  sat  over-young  but  with 
decorum  upon  Father  Aloysius's  knee,  and 
never  endangered  the  family  spoon.  But 
Dion,  scowling  and  shy,  would  watch  Vroni 
long  with  beautiful  gloomy  eyes  in  which  her 


294  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

poor  heart  read  reproach,  repulsed  her,  would 
not  call  her  mother,  would  yield,  she  found, 
to  no  caress  or  entreaty;  but,  left  to  his  own 
instincts,  after  t\vo  or  three  days  of  her 
martyrdom,  would  seize  her  on  a  sudden  and 
cling  with  speechless  and  passionate  intensity. 

"  'T  is  well  I  cannot  sec  them  twice  a  year. 
The  parting  is  too  cruel,  and  saps  the  strength 
that  I  do  greatly  need  for  them,"  she  would 
'say  grimly  to  herself,  gird  up  her  loins,  and 
stride  forth  upon  her  battlefield. 

Of  men  she  voluntarily  saw  as  little  as 
possible.  But  although  she  shunned  merry 
makings  and  all  places  that  could  steal  a 
penny  from  the  inheritance  of  her  children, 
she  was  too  handsome  and  too  unique  to  es 
cape  man's  notice,  at  times  his  intrusivencss. 
She  knew  fatally  well  what  in  her  case  even . 
the  best  of  it  was  worth,  for  this  was  one  of 
the  special  phases  of  human  nature  her  lot 
had  forced  her  to  investigate.  Some  men 
wanted  merely  to  amuse  themselves.  Others 
were  honestly  attracted  and  meant  marriage, 
until  by  chance  a  flying  hint  of  her  misfor 
tunes  reached  them,  when  they  forthwith  felt 
justified  in  approaching  her  with  lax  language 
and  revolting  designs,  —  such  as  she  being 


Heart's  Dearest  295 

obviously  fair  game.  She  made  short  work 
of  them.  The  flash  of  her  eye  and  her  grim 
contempt  struck  like  blows. 

But  once  she  almost  liked  a  man.  He  was 
a  friendly,  manly,  intelligent  fellow  with  a 
record  for  bravery.  She  saw  him  growing 
fond  of  her  and  eager  to  declare  himself;  so 
she  nerved  herself  to  intercept  him  with  her 
tale,  that  is,  with  its  resultant  facts,  and  saw 
him  blanch  and  slink  away.  For  though 
brave  enough  before  guns,  he,  too,  dared  not 
face  the  world. 

She  had  indeed  abjured  marriage,  but  not 
of  her  own  freewill  all  kindly  human  inter 
course,  and  had  been  glad  of  his  companion 
ship  and  good  sense.  For  with  her  brutal 
disillusions  and  her  steadily  ripening  mind 
she  had  become  mortally  weary  of  her  women 
associates'  incessant  chatter  of  sweethearts, 
and  breathless  estimate  of  the  chances  of 
securing  this  or  that  man  as  life's  ultimate 
aim  and  triumph.  So  this  defection  gave  her 
a  brief  pang,  left  her  wiser,  and  it  may  be  a 
trifle  harder. 

Neither  he  nor  her  sorrier  suitors  had  the 
brain  to  perceive  that  for  the  long,  uphill  pull 
of  matrimony,  the  unblemished  lamb  with  a 


296  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

large  dowry  whom  they  all  were  seeking  to 
better  their  fortunes  was  not,  even  from  the 
worldly  and  practical  point  of  view,  where  they 
based  all  calculations,  comparable  to  this  able 
and  intelligent  creature,  tried  in  the  fires  of 
adversity,  finely  tempered  for  any  conflict,  and 
possessed  of  heart  qualities  of  surpassing  rich 
ness  and  purity. 

Fools  that  they  were,  they  beheld  only  her 
pretty  oval  face,  her  brown  and  ruddy  skin, 
her  young  smile,  for  that  she  kept,  - —  a  smile 
is  a  thing  that  dies  hard ;  her  eyes,  her  form, 
her  step,  her  charm,  and  over  all,  the  ugly 
stain  upon  her  reputation  which,  according 
to  their  low  and  cruel  creed,  made  her  fair  prey 
for  the  meanest  of  their  noble  fellowship. 

Open-eyed,  viewing  much,  one  fated  to  be 
confronted  ever  by  distinct  and  manifold  ex 
periences,  she  would  cry  at  moments  in  wither 
ing  scorn : — 

"  Truly,  men  folk,  high  and  low,  have  much 
to  learn  of  sense  and  decency,"  then  meekly,— 
"  and  women,  too,  alas  !     Yet  cowards  are  the 
men,  despite  their  swagger.     'Tis  well  we  four 
crave  naught  of  them." 

Isolating  herself  habitually,  and  for  enter 
tainment  thrown  wholly  upon  her  own  re- 


Heart's  Dearest  297 

sources,  she  now  began  to  read,  at  first  with 
exceeding  effort,  an  evening  paper.  It  filled 
her  with  impatience  to  sit  still  at  it,  and  the 
novel  mental  exertion  induced  the  phenome 
non  of  curiously  cramped  and  restless  legs. 
Frequently  she  laid  it  aside,  only  to  take  it  up 
again  and  regard  it  with  frowning  speculation. 

"Ha!  'Twere  a  blame  on  me  could  I 
strain  naught  of  its  sense  into  my  brain-pan, 
when  the  fat  Vallade  butler  did  draw  the  whole 
strength  out  of  the  print  and  never  blink." 

It  was  arduous  digging,  but  she  persevered. 
'Twas  at  least,  she  reflected,  no  harm  and 
might  sometime  be  a  bit  useful  to  the  children. 
Every  night  she  had  perhaps  an  hour  free  be 
fore  bedtime,  sometimes  more.  Slowly  and 
painfully  she  established  the  habit  of  consecu 
tive  reading,  —  a  very  different  thing  from 
being  able  and  not  unwilling  to  read  whatever 
sporadic  bit  was  strictly  necessary  in  the  line 
of  one's  cooking.  The  love  for  this  employ 
ment  was  naturally  of  still  slower  growth,  but 
also  evolved  in  time.  Her  evening  paper,  at 
first  so  impenetrable,  became  familiar  and  easy 
reading  of  which  she  finally  made  her  choice 
with  almost  the  aplomb  of  the  butler. 

She  took  the  leaders  with  tremendous  seri- 


298  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

ousness  and  seized  the  heart  of  them  —  when 
they  possessed  one.  At  length  she  turned  to 
books,  choosing  by  chance  a  volume  of  essays 
noticed  in  her  paper.  The  style  was  clear; 
the  themes,  relating  to  human  intercourse, 
within  her  mental  grasp.  Words  strange  to 
her  she  looked  up  in  her  dictionary.  She 
found  a  "  lot  of  Kaudcrwelsch,  but  the  talk  was 
brave  sense."  She  continued  to  read  thought 
ful  books.  She  had  considerably  more  than 
three  hundred  and  sixty-five  hours  in  a  year 
for  her  modest  researches  in  literature,  since 
on  every  other  Sunday  she  could  command 
nearly  half  a  day.  In  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  hours  is  time  enough,  however,  for  vari 
ous  things. 

One  autumn  morning,  nearly  five  years  after 
Mclchior  had  rushed  groaning  from  the  hospital, 
he  was  drearily  airing  his  royal  equine  charges, 
when  he  met  a  young  woman  with  a  white  cap, 
a  long  white  apron,  a  big  brown  basket,  a 
swift  step,  and  a  vivid  face  not  easy  to  forget. 

Instinctively  he  drew  up  his  horses,  and  she 
stopped  short. 

"  Vroni !  "  he  cried,  glancing  quickly  around 
to  see  if  they  were  observed,  but  it  was  a 
rather  lonely  street. 


Heart's  Dearest 


299 


"  Griiss  Gott,  Melchior,"  she  returned 
coolly. 

"  Na  —  Vroni !  " 

"  'T  is  my  name." 

"Whence  comst  thou?"  he  stammered. 

"  From  market,  as  thou  seest." 

"  Knowst  that  be  not  my  meaning.  Where 
hast  thou  whiled  this  long,  long  time?  " 

"  In  all  four  winds'  quarters,"  she  answered 
nonchalantly. 

"What  doing?" 

"  Earning  my  bread.  Hadst  been  minded 
to  know  aught  of  me,  couldst  have  knocked 
at  our  good  Marie's  door,  eh?" 

"Hast  really  come  back,  Vroni?" 

"  Ha,  what  thinkst?     Mayhap  I  be  a  ghost." 

"Art  not  wedded?"  he  asked  timidly, 

"Nay — thanks  and  praise  ten  thousandfold 
to  God." 

"And  art  in  a  respectable  house?" 

"  As  to  that  I  know  not,  meanings  being 
many  a  time  contrariwise  'twixt  me  and  thee. 
'T  is  a  house  with  a  brave  appetite.  For  that 
I  cook.  'T  is  a  house  with  gold  in  its  strong 
box.  Of  that  I  have  my  dues.  More  I  ask 
not." 

He   gazed  at  her  in  wonder,  curiosity,  and 


300  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

no  little  excitement,  strangely  glad  in  spite  of 
himself.  His  life  was  dull  and  disappointing, 
and  Jakobine  palled.  There  stood  his  repro 
bate  sister,  pretty  as  a  picture  and  quite  at  her 
ease. 

" 'T  is  most  amazing — and  I'll  not  deny  it 
pleaseth  me  not  ill  to  greet  thee,"  he  admitted, 
vaguely  apologetic. 

"  Fine  thanks,"  she  dryly  returned.  "  Art 
little  changed,  I  mark,  without  or  within." 

"  Thou,  Vroni,  how  didst  chance  then  to 
return? " 

"  Oh,  the  family  where  I  cook  did  of  late 
move  hither.  I  was  not  loath.  The  town  did 
ever  suit  me  fairly  well." 

She  greatly  puzzled  him  with  the  cool  neg 
ligence  of  her  manner.  It  seemed  to  him 
he  was  called  upon  to  remonstrate,  but  a 
gleam  that  daunted  him  was  lurking  in  her  eye. 

"What  family  might  it  be?"  he  demanded 
with  anxiety. 

Serious  and   deliberate,  she  replied:  — 

"  'T  is  a  family  that  makes  bold  to  call  itself 
by  name  Prince  Uhl-Rheda." 

"  O  Lord !  "  exclaimed  Mclchior,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  his  official  career  was  guilty  of 
the  enormity  of  dropping  his  whip. 


Heart's  Dearest  301 

She  gravely  picked  it  up  and  handed  it  to 
him. 

"Uhl-Rheda!"  he  gasped. 

"Tis  the  name  that  I  did  speak." 

"Art  there  since  when?" 

"  Nigh  on  two  years,  —  after  much  wander 
ing  and  vexing  change  less  to  my  mind.  Al 
ways  before  they  'd  had  a  chef.  But  I,"  she 
quoted  calmly,  "  am  quite  as  good  a  cook 
and  less  extravagant  and  variable.  'T  is  the 
message  that  did  come  down  to  me  from  the 
gracious  Herrsckaft." 

"  Vroni,  do  they  suspect  thy  —  history?  " 

Her  eyes  clouded  ominously,  but  she  still 
curbed  her  tongue. 

"  Did  inquire  naught  concerning  their  past 
doings  nor  they  of  mine.  'T  were  scarce 
princely  to  pry  into  such  humble  matters. 
I  cook  to  suit  their  palates,  have  a  head 
for  reckoning,  and  cheat  them  not.  With 
that  they  are  content,  and  rightly  so.  I  pray 
thee,  be  thou  likewise." 

In  her  restraint  was  a  warning  a  wise  man 
might  have  heeded. 

"  Scemst  to  sit  rarely  firm  in  thy  saddle,"  he 
murmured. 

"  'T  is  as  thou  sayst,  Mclchior." 


3O1  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"  'T  is  all  most  strange.  Hast  heard  aught 
from  Sebastian?  Hath  he  forgiven  thee?" 

She  waited  some  moments,  her  nostrils  di 
lating,  her  breathing  short  and  quick,  her  gaze 
averted,  before  saying  low  and  strenuously :  — 

"  /  have  forgiven  him." 

At  this,  what  Mclchior  called  his  principles 
began  to  bubble  :  — 

"  Nay,  Vroni,  so  mayst  a  maid  like  thee  not 
speak  of  one  who  is  the  head  of  all  of  us,  and 
of  truly  holy  life.  'T  is  grievous,  on  my  soul, 
to  find  thee  bold  when  modesty  and  lamenta 
tion  would  better  suit  thy  case.  When  I  do 
mark  thy  carelessness,  and  mind  me  of  those 
two  unhappy  children,  thy  shame  and  my 
own  — 

Strong,  resolute,  and  fiery,  her  spirit  leaped 
in  her  face.  She  put  the  basket  on  the  pave 
ment,  took  a  step  forward,  and  with  an  im 
perious  gesture  stopped  him:  — 

"Thou,  Melchior,  I'll  have  a  straight  word 
with  thee,  here  and  now.  I  pray  thee,  hearken. 
Of  thy  sermons  I  am  minded  to  hear  naught. 
Art  thou  disposed  to  give  me  of  thy  converse, 
thou  shalt  henceforth  speak  naught  to  me  thou 
mightst  not  in  thy  civil  manners  to  a  stranger. 
Art  set  neither  by  God  Almighty  nor  by  His 


Heart's  Dearest  303 

Majesty  the  King  to  tutor  me,  and  how  it  doth 
look  inside  me  is  truly  mine  own  care,  and 
thine  in  no  wise.  Mark  that,  I  pray  thee. 

"  I  grant  I  did  ye  all  great  wrong ;  but  in  re 
turn  what  did  ye,  my  two  brothers,  but  leave 
me  to  die  like  a  dog  by  the  roadside  or  fall  to 
a  worse  fate,  were  I  so  inclined?  Therefore 
I  '11  brook  no  word  from  thee,  for  't  is  not  in 
my  nature.  Let  each  square  his  sins  with  his 
own  conscience  and  cry  quits  with  the  other. 
I  ask  naught  of  thee.  I  need  thee  not.  Hast 
heard  ? 

"  I  mind  me,  thou  didst  even  now  let  fall 
some  words  unseemly  to  mine  ears,  —  't  is  of 
them  we  now  do  speak.  I  pray  thee,  favor 
me  with  thy  attention.  Seest,  Melchior,  I  am 
the  mother  of  two  beautiful  children,  and  I 
have  money  in  the  bank  for  them,  and  I  can 
cook  to-day  in  the  palace  of  thy  royal  master, 
the  King,  if  so  I  do  desire.  My  way  I  've  made 
alone.  'Twas  not  a  way  of  daisies.  'T  was 
hard  toil,  hard  thought,  hard  fighting,  and 
much  else  bitter  hard  of  which  I  speak  not. 
Do  thou  not  mind  that;  't  is  my  matter.  But 
that  which  I  do  pray  thee  to  heed  well,  —  't  is 
this  my  present  speech. 

"  Sebastian,  as  doth  freely  please  him,  will 


304  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

gather  artichokes  and  pray  his  angry  prayers. 
'T  is  naught  to  me.  'T  is  air.  Thou,  Melchior, 
mayst  look  English  at  me  from  thy  box.  It 
doth  move  me  not  at  all.  Can  myself  look 
English,  or  worse  still,  so  that  be  needed.  Have 
got  beyond  thee,  Melchior,  in  that  I  fear  naught. 
'Tis  standing  alone  has  done  it,  —  against  the 
world  and  for  my  Nita  and  my  Dion. 

"  And  once  for  all  I  say  to  thee  I  shame 
me  not  for  them  —  no  more.  For  all  wrong 
doing  in  the  past,  God  is  my  judge.  But  for 
my  children  I  now  know  no  shame ;  nor  mayst 
thou  dare  again  to  speak  that  word  and  their 
names  in  one  breath.  Hast  heard,  Melchior. 

"  Am  proud  of  them.  Will  not  permit  one 
syllable,  one  look,  one  thought  flung  at  them, 
as  if  they  had  no  place  or  right  upon  this 
earth.  Ha !  't  is  pity,  truly,  thou  canst  not 
take  '  the  beauties '  in  thine  arms  and  see 
them,  sweet  and  shy-like,  spy  at  thee  yet  with 
the  father's  own  deep  eyes.  They'd  freshen 
thee,  my  poor  old  Melchior,  thou  who  didst  ever 
in  thy  secret  heart  long  for  a  little  child  to 
father  and  to  love. 

"  Yet  seest,  ere  that  thou  touchest  them, 
thou  ncedst  must  honor  every  hair  of  their 
dear  heads,  —  and  me,  because  I  'm  their 


Heart's  Dearest  305 

mother.  Shouldst  ever  crave  to  see  me,  Mel- 
chior,  on  these  terms,  shallst  find  me.  I  bear 
no  grudge ;  can  welcome  thee  to-morrow,  and 
greet  even  thy  Jakobine  in  friendly  wise.  But 
if  our  hands  do  ever  meet,  we  '11  stand  on  this 
ground  that  I  now  do  say  to  thee,  and  on  no 
other.  Otherwise  —  English  !  Have  spoken. 
Thou  hast  heard.  Wish  thee  good-day." 

Taking  up  her  basket,  she  turned  her  back 
upon  the  petrified  King's  coachman  and 
marched  off  briskly. 


20 


306  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 


XVI 

ALONE,  as  was  her  habit,  grave,  self-contained, 
Vroni  went  to  Vespers  in  the  church  where 
Vincenz  used  to  kneel,  too  close,  beside  her 
and  look  askance  at  her  in  prayer-time; 
where  at  the  portals  he  had  waited  with  his 
half-smiling  stare,  and  from  whence  he  followed 
to  intrude  his  sleek  selfishness  into  the  cool 
sanctuary  of  her  childlike  thought:  in  that 
church  where  too  she  had  sought  and  found 
more  than  earthly  help  in  the  hour  of  her 
agony,  and  made  her  peace  with  Dionysius 
the  weaver,  who  she  was  convinced  had  never 
left  her  since. 

In  sharp  self-scrutiny  and  self-abasement, 
she  re-lived  every  epoch  of  that  fateful  time ; 
for  if  she  confronted  the  world  valiantly, 
before  the  tribunal  of  her  own  soul  she  ex 
tenuated  nothing,  and  was  retentive  of  every 
pang  she  had  suffered  and  of  every  hateful 
scene  in  which  she  had  figured  during  the 
period  of  her  gay  shamelcssness. 


Heart's  Dearest  307 

It  was  unsafe  to  forget,  she  meditated,  upon 
her  knees;  not  always  to  dwell  upon  it,  for 
that  weakened  her  elasticity,  yet  never  to  let 
one  line  of  it  grow  faint.  For  in  her,  some 
where,  buried  deep  and  out  of  sight,  was  a 
wild  strain  yet.  She  felt  it  leap  when  there 
was  music  on  a  sudden,  and  sometimes,  God 
forgive  her,  when  men's  eyes  looked  kind  on 
her,  and  men's  eyes,  beholding  her,  were  but 
too  apt  to  look  too  kind.  It  was  then  as 
though  her  heart  were  a  strange,  strong,  free 
thing,  —  glad,  dare-devil,  and  gypsyish, —  caring 
for  naught  on  earth  save  its  own  whim.  And 
if  this  sleeping  wildness  should  wake  again 
and  rise  up  and  seize  her,  what  would  become 
of  her  Nita  and  her  Dion?  So  she  still 
shunned  music,  mirth,  and  men,  although  the 
steadily  increasing  sum  in  the  savings  bank 
would  have  justified  a  little  relaxation.  It 
was  in  truth  an  ascetic  life  she  was  leading, 
but  she  called  it  by  no  high  name. 

Humbly  thankful  for  what  she  had  overcome, 
for  what  she  had  gained  of  strength,  she  left  the 
church,  and  in  the  early  autumn  dusk  ascended 
the  winding  path  of  the  little  park,  stopped  at 
sorrowful  stations  in  her  reminiscence,  and 
prayed  her  prayers  and  loved  her  children. 


308  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"  For  some  cause  I  do  fear  naught  for  my 
Nita-le,  maid  though  she  be ;  yet  many  a  time 
I  'm  grieving,  knowing  not  what 's  in  my 
Dion's  being,  or  whence  his  mood  apart. 
The  Marie  says  ofttimes  he  's  rarely  far  dff 
in  himself  and  like  no  child.  Pray  God 
there  be  not  in  his  blood  too  much  of  him. 
Truly  Melchior  leans  not  in  likeness  toward 
the  father;  nor  doth  Marie  nor  Sebastian  ;  nor 
I  myself,  save  in  the  outward  features,  though 
'twas  the  father's  meaning— loving  me  and 
knowing  not  what  should  arrive  of  ill —  that 
he  did  ever  fairly  spy  himself  in  me.  'T  is 
odd  one  can  count  surer  on  a  dumb  beast's 
heritage  than  on  a  human  child's.  My  Dion 
doth  torment  me.  So  there  be  in  him  of 
Vincenz's  strain,  I  pray  it  be  but  moderate 
large,  and  like  to  Vincenz  only  when  he  was 
a  little  curly  headed  child, —  so  much,  no 
more.  Yet  many  a  time  with  aching  heart 
I  tremble  for  my  little  lad — for  my  Dion 
was  the  sin." 

At  her  next  dusky  station  she  stood  some 
time.  She  was  resolved  to  live  no  longer 
banished  from  the  children ;  and,  Vincenz 
gone,  she  had  no  fear.  Their  sweet  baby 
hood  she  had  for  their  gain  foregone  and 


Heart's  Dearest  309 

mourned  unceasingly  though  showing  out 
wardly  a  savage  fortitude.  But  the  time  was 
come  for  her  to  have  them  near.  She  felt 
they  now  imperatively  needed  her.  In  the 
spring  Dion,  after  finally  deigning  to  emerge 
from  his  stony  reserve,  to  recognize  and  asso 
ciate  with  her  familiarly,  had  said  solemnly : 

"  Dost  while  long  in  the  Unterland" 

She  endeavored  to  explain,  in  terms  suited 
to  his  baby-comprehension,  the  causes  of  the 
infrequency  of  her  visits. 

Sombre  and  unconvinced,  his  great  eyes  re 
buked  her:  — 

"  Whilst  long,"  he  persisted,  frowning. 

She  must  have  them ;  yet  how,  where,  under 
what  conditions  she  was  wholly  unable  even 
to  conjecture.  So  profoundly  lost  in  thought 
was  she  that  she  perceived  but  by  degrees  the 
voices,  words,  at  last  the  paramount  meaning 
of  a  man  and  woman  who  had  approached  and 
were  speaking  low  and  rapidly  behind  a  clump 
of  trees  —  the  woman  hardly  above  her  sigh 
ing  breath. 

"  Ha,  't  is  the  park-business,  and  another 
fool  like  me." 

The  man's  voice  urged  and  pleaded  —  low, 
warm,  most  strenuous. 


3 io  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"  T  is  pity.  There's  awful  foolishtry  in 
God's  brave  world.  Would  I  could  stop  her ! 
Would  I  could  hold  one  single  poor  maid 
back  from  the  blind  rush  I  myself  did  make. 
But,  alas,  I  cannot !  'T  is  to  men  maids 
hearken  ever.  She  's  minded  to  run  off  with 
him.  'T  is  plain.  A  lady — awfully  fond  but 
breaking  quite  in  twain  for  trouble,  love,  and 
fear.  Poor  thing!  Hear  her  sob.  Do  I  mis 
take  not,  —  he  has  a  fairly  honest  voice,  even 
to  mine  own  cold  ears  that  be  not  over  favor 
able  to  such  as  he.  Where,  long  since,  did  I 
hear  that  voice?  " 

Listening  more  intently,  she  caught  a  few 
clear  words  from  the  woman. 

Swift  steps  startled  the  lovers ;  from  the 
gloom  a  form  emerged,  dropped  at  the  lady's 
feet  and  clasped  her  knees. 

"  Nay,  Comtesse  Nelka,  nay  !  " 

Eck  Flemming  seized  the  intruder's  shoulder. 

"  Don't  speak  roughly  to  her.  It  is  only 
Vroni." 

"Do  not  be  afraid,"  poor  Nclka,  trembling 
from  head  to  foot,  said  sweetly ;  "  you  know 
I  always  liked  you,  Vroni,  and  I've  wondered 
what  had  become  of  you  in  this  long  time." 
She  put  her  head  protcctingly  on  Vroni's  head. 


Heart's  Dearest  311 

"  Get  up,  Vroni,  you  have  nothing  to  fear  where 
I  am." 

"  'T  is  for  the  gracious  comtesse  only  and 
alone  that  I  do  fear  me.  I  overheard.  Com 
tesse, 'tis  sheer  impossible.  Oh,  go  away,  Herr 
Eck,  go  far  from  her !  "  Vroni  cried  fiercely. 

"  Vroni,  my  good  girl,  let  go  the  comtesse  ; 
come  to  your  senses ;  get  up  on  your  feet  and 
leave  us.  Our  affairs  do  not  concern  you. 
You  forget  yourself  strangely." 

Again  he  sought  to  separate  her  from  Nelka. 

But  Vroni,  kneeling  still,  one  arm  thrown 
round  the  comtesse,  half  turned  to  face  him, 
and  with  ungovernable  feeling  exclaimed : 

"  Me,  most  of  all  do  they  concern:  and  't  is 
just  because  I  remember  of  myself  that  I  do 
speak.  And  I  will  speak,  and  you  shall  listen, 
Herr  Eck  Flcmming." 

He  made  an  impatient  movement  and  ex 
clamation. 

"  Come,  Nelka,  let  us  go  on,"  he  said. 

"  Nay,  for  I  '11  follow,"  retorted  Vroni,  low 
and  vehement,  rising  quickly.  "  You  cannot 
shake  me  off.  I  '11  stop  at  naught.  I  will 
alarm  them  all,  so  there  be  need.  Will  go  my 
self  to  Count  Valladc  and  the  countess.  Will 
telegraph  to  the  Counts  Benno,  Knod,  and 


3 1 2  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

Waldemar.     I  '11  not  tell  Baron  Frege,  for  he 
shall  never  know." 

"Vroni!     Vroni !  "  moaned  Nelka,  aghast. 

The  girl  turned,  and,  in  her  old  impulsive 
ardent  way,  kissed  the  comtesse's  hands. 

"  She  's  crazy,"  muttered  Flemming. 

"  'T  is  not  the  first  time  I  'm  so  called,  yet 
ever,  to  my  comfort,  when  I  be  most  sound  of 
sense.  Herr  Eck,  I  pray  your  pardon  if  I  be 
sharp  and  rude.  I  am  not  minded  to  do  such 
harsh  things  as  I  spake.  I  but  said,  mark  you, 
if  there  be  need." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  your  intentions  are  excel 
lent,"  he  replied,  with  authoritative  kindness; 
"  but  there  is  nothing  whatever  you  can  say 
which  we  wish  to  hear.  I  must  insist  upon 
your  going  at  once.  You  must  see  yourself 
it  is  an  unheard  of  piece  of  presumption, 
meddlesome,  in  short,  to  the  last  degree,  and 
I  '11  ask  you  to  have  the  kindness  to  go  off." 

"Herr  Eck,"  she  said  quite  gently,  "that 
I  am  a  servant  and  you  a  learned  young  gen 
tleman  is  mayhap  what  is  in  your  mind.  But 
for  that  I  care  not.  It  is  air.  'T  is  to  your 
heart  I  have  a  word  to  say." 

"  Speak,  Vroni,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  wish  it. 
We  both  will  listen." 


Heart's  Dearest  313 

"  Herr  Eck,  I  pray  you  to  look  back  and  to 
remember.  Were,  if  I  err  not,  a  little  orphan- 
boy,  son  of  Count  Vallade's  oldest  friend ; 
friends  as  lads,  youths,  and  men,  were  they. 
Not  all  great  men  at  Court  are  faithful.  But 
the  count  took  you  into  his  home,  sent  you  to 
the  best  schools,  gladdened  your  holidays,  let 
you  miss  naught,  was  proud  of  your  brave 
talent.  You  were  like  one  of  his  own  sons, 
save  hardier  in  body,  stronger  at  book-learn 
ing,  and  honester  of  heart,  - —  leastwise,  't  was 
so  believed.  'T  is  many  a  year  of  goodness 
you  have  to  thank  him  for,  and  he  is  a  gray- 
haired  man  and  sorely  careworn,  and  the 
one  joy  that  gladdens  him,  't  is  the  gracious 
Comtesse  Nelka.  Speak  I  true  words,  Herr 
Eck?" 

The  man  was  silent.  He  forgot  whose  was 
this  strange  and  penetrating  voice  in  the 
dark. 

"And  the  young  counts?  Na,  I  know,  but 
't  is  chiefly  the  empty-headed  way  they  're 
bred.  Fond  of  you  are  they  every  one.  I 
once  did  overhear  Count  VValdemar  say  Herr 
Eck  was  his  '  blood-brother,'  the  one  man  that 
he  did  really  care  for.  They  were  your  good 
comrades  years  and  years.  They  shared  half 


314  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

and  half  with  you  when  you  had  naught  save 
for  the  Vallades.  Truly  they  be  fast  and 
senseless-selfish ;  they  do  live  the  life  and  go 
the  pace,  and  howe'cr  else  they  may  name 
their  pretty  doings  ;  and  whatsoever  bad,  mad 
freak  is  on  the  wind,  they  grasp  it  with  both 
hands  ;  and  with  women  sheer  cruel,  as  most 
doth  please  you  men,  Herr  Eck  Flemming; 
but  if  there  be  one  thing  on  earth  these  three 
gay  brothers  believe  in  and  hold  high,  it  is 
the  gracious  Comtesse  Nelka.  Is  it  true,  Herr 
Eck?" 

"  It  is  true,  Vroni,"  he  muttered  hoarsely. 

"  Herr  Eck,  she  is  an  angel.  Leave  her 
one.  She  's  miserable ;  but  she  '11  know  worse 
misery  if  she  does  this  thing.  'T  is  your 
meaning  to  gladden  and  to  care  for  her  most 
softly  ;  but  you  have  but  one  little  span  of  life, 
and  what  if  you  should  die?  What  then? 
How  would  she  live,  she  and  her  children? 
For  though  you  think  not  of  it,  and  she,  poor 
gracious  lady,  less,  't  is  fitting  I  at  least  do 
now  remind  you,  there  be  always  children 
following  such  steps,  —  which  is  a  thing  of 
great  import,  not  likely  to  be  put  aside.  In 
all  things  there  is  a  giving  and  a  taking.  'T  is 
surely  fair  to  reckon  both  ;  and  in  your  mind, 


Heart's  Dearest  315 

which  doth  possess  so  much  of  learning,  to 
weigh  well  if  you  do  give  enough  to  cover 
all  that  which  you  do  take  from  her." 

It  was  impossible  longer  to  spurn  this  un 
bidden  counsellor  whose  soft  and  solemn  voice 
so  fast,  so  eager  yet  controlled,  now  in  the 
sturdy  phrase  of  the  Rough  Alp,  now  with 
a  book-word  but  recently  made  her  own,  con 
tinued  its  appeal,  and  hardly  stopped  except 
when  some  passer-by  briefly  approached  too 
near,  or  when,  for  but  an  instant,  she  seemed 
to  seek  her  argument. 

Leaning  against  a  tree,  Flemming  stood 
silent  and  heard  the  woman  pleading  in  the 
darkness  as  if  she  were  his  conscience  incar 
nate,  so  often  had  he  himself  dwelt  weightily 
upon  every  point  which  she  accentuated ;  yet 
he  flung  his  arm  round  Nelka  and  held  her 
close  as  if  against  the  world.  She,  sobbing 
no  more,  quite  motionless,  her  cheek  upon 
his  breast,  listened  and  wished  that  she  were 
dead. 

"  See,  Herr  Eck,  it  is  not  possible  the  thing 
you  want — not  for  you  two.  She  cannot  bear 
rough  things.  She  never  learned  to  work. 
Hardship  would  kill  her.  But  truly  't  is  not 
these  that  be  the  worst  to  bear.  Do  you  sup- 


316  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

pose  the  gracious  Comtesse  Nelka  is  one  that 
could  know  a  moment's  peace  did  her  father 
follow  her,  waking  and  sleeping,  with  stern 
eyes  turned  from  her?  And  your  own  dead 
father  who,  dying,  left  you  to  his  friend? 
And  the  Countess  Vallade  ?  " 

Flemming  gave  a  violent  start,  but   Nclka 
laid  her  hand  across  his  lips. 

"  Ah,  yes,  Herr  Eck,  I  know.  Ofttimes  we 
serving-folk,  without  much  striving,  do  spy 
more  out  mayhap  than  the  HcrrscJiaft  fancies. 
T  is  not  fitting  to  bespeak  it  narrowly,  but 
of  some  matters  I  did  chance  to  hear  a  hint, 
and  truly  'twas  most  grievous.  Knew  I  then 
what  now  I  know,  't  is  I  myself  would  have 
oped  my  mouth  wide,  fearing  naught.  But 
five  years  gone,  much  did  entangle  me,  nor 
did  my  HcrrscJiaffs  manners  seem  by  good 
rights  my  concern.  Truly  a  wrong  was  done 
you,  and  a  greater  wrong  my  Comtesse  Nclka 
—  for  all  your  lives.  Yet  how  about  the 
years,  Herr  Eck,  when  she  did  never  wrong 
you,  when  she  did  love  you  and  was  good  to 
you,  and  never  let  you,  at  least,  feel  her  great 
pride?  Ah,  Herr  Eck,  it  is  not  wise  to  dwell 
upon  our  wrongs  alone.  'T  is  I  may  say  it, 
being  prone  to  it  myself." 


Heart's  Dearest  317 

"  Oh,  gracious  Comtesse  Nclka,"  and  now 
was  Vroni  little  less  than  wonderful  in 
her  protecting  tenderness  through  which 
throbbed  her  own  stern  sorrow,  "  it  greatly 
hurts  and  stings,  when  the  world  jeers  one, 
and  folk  worse  than  one  was  ever  at  one's 
worst  do  have  a  sort  of  right  to  tread  one 
underfoot  and  call  foul  names.  And  it  doth 
hurt  like  knives  when  one's  own  do  turn  from 
one,  and  brothers  curse,  —  for  there  be  they 
who  truly  curse  in  prayer.  'T  is  years  until 
one,  plodding  slow,  teeth  set,  doth  learn  to 
bear  it,  and  make  as  though  one  careth  not, 
—  but  one  careth,  and  will  ever  care,  till  one's 
death  day. 

"  Even  they  that  be  rough  and  tough  and 
used  to  toil,  and  stout  to  fight  their  way 
and  let  naught  show  upon  the  countenance, 
die  many  deaths  of  grief,  of  loneliness,  of 
hopelessness,  of  misery  and  shame.  And, 
my  gracious  comtesse,  my  pretty,  pretty 
Comtesse  Nclka,  with  her  soft  white  ways,  and 
her  gentle  heart  —  ach  Gott,  acli  Gott!" 

"  You  see,  dear  Eck,"  murmured  Nelka, 
piteously,  "  it  is  as  I  told  you.  I  have  not 
strength  to  go.  I  have  not  strength  to  re 
main.  I  am  worthless." 


318  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

Flemming  held  her  in  his  close  grasp,  yet 
spoke  no  word  of  comfort.  A  hot  conflict 
was  raging  in  his  soul. 

"  Strength  to  remain  has  my  gracious  Com- 
tesse  Nelka !  Strength  not  to  stab  her  father's 
heart,  and  not  to  wound  all  these  people,  that, 
whatever  they  do  lack,  —  truly,  'tis  much,— 
love  her  the  best  they  know.  Hcrr  Eck 
speaks  not,  but,  in  his  great  wisdom  and  his 
learning  and  his  pity,  are  his  thoughts  good 
again. 

"See.  'Tis  that  you  two,  just  you  two, 
may  not  murder  the  peace  of  mind  of 
them  that  have  been  good  to  you ;  and  bad 
again,  '  t  is  true,  but  good  was  most  and 
longest.  Then  there  are  others.  I  pray  your 
pardon  that  I  do  speak  of  these  when  your 
hearts  so  do  swell  and  burst  with  your  own 
griefs.  Yet  I  do  make  so  bold,  being  moved 
strongly  in  my  thought,  to  say  there  be  on  all 
sides  little  fools  of  working  girls,  of  the  sort  I 
myself  used  to  be,  five  or  six  years  agone; 
mayhap  not  evil-hearted,  but  empty  in  the 
head  —  lacking  instruction  —  and  chiefly  want 
ing  they  know  not  what,  reaching  out  after  a 
little  joy. 

"  A  thousand  such  may  go  astray  and  the 


Heart's  Dearest  319 

world  is  none  the  wiser.  But,  Comtesse  Nelka ! 
If  she  did  sacrifice  all  else  and  go  away  with 
you,  Herr  Eck,  she  with  her  great  name  and 
everything  that  others  lack  and  crave,  —  beauty 
and  money,  and  a  rich,  soft  life,  —  then  all  the 
little  working  girls  would  say:  'See!  She 
had  everything  this  world  can  give,  yet  did 
but  that  she  liked.  Then  why  not  we?' 
So  she'd  push  scores  of  them  down — down 
so  far  that  few  would  ever  crawl  up  again ; 
and  no  wonder,  for  God  knows  the  crawling 
up  is  bitter  hard,  and  the  hands  that  fain 
would  thrust  one  down  again,  and  deeper 
down, —  they  do  fail  never  more. 

"And  who  will  remember  the  comtesse  is 
innocent  and  good?  And  who  will  say  you 
were  like  brother  and  sister  all  your  lives,  and 
grievously  mishandled,  in  that  'twas  no  fair 
play  that  did  rend  you  in  twain?  Who  will 
believe,  Herr  Eck,  that  you  be  honest;  that 
you  would  die  a  thousand  deaths  rather  than 
hurt  her;  that  you  do  stand  there  now  this 
instant,  in  silence,  with  your  heart  like  to  a 
live  coal  in  your  breast,  and  mad  with  grief, 
not  for  yourself  alone,  though  you  do  love 
her  with  your  strong  man's  love,  but  like 
wise  because  you  do  behold  her  in  misery 


320  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

and  grievousncss  of  life  and  fain  would  save 
and  comfort  her? 

"  But  none  will  care  for  that.  She  will  be 
lumped  with  the  bad  and  lost  and  shameless 
ones.  'T  is  monstrous.  'Tis  not  sense.  But 
true  it  is.  As  if  she  ever  could  be  aught  but 
clean  and  white  !  But  the  world  stops  not  to 
draw  lines,  be  there  a  body  to  hoot  and  stone. 
Truly,  't  is  a  rare  fool-world  for  women  folk, 
and  that 's  the  kernel  of  my  thought. 

"  Nor  do  I  now  speak  of  the  right  and  wrong 
of  things.  Ha !  Were  there  but  you  twain, 
and  he  who  evilly  did  buy  her !  My  meanings 
as  to  what  sin  be  and  be  not  are  my  own,  and 
none  such  as  noisy  tongues  do  bray  in  herds. 
Mayhap,  I  could  say  more,  not  illy  founded  in 
my  reason,  and  in  God's  sight  truth,  though 
ten  thousand  worlds  do  blunder  ere  their  wis 
dom  teeth  be  grown  ;  mayhap,  indeed,  one  day, 
to  my  gracious  Comtesse  Nelka  only,  —  nay, 
't  is  enough  !  It  may  not  be. 

"  Herr  Eck,  I  do  declare  it  be  not  possible, 
not  possible,  that  you,  having  a  great  heart  and 
wisdom  beyond  common  folk,  do  hurt  beyond 
repair  so  many  men  and  women,  and  most  our 
gracious  and  beloved  Comtesse  Xelka.  'T  is 
why,  in  your  greatheartedness,  you  now  most 


Heart's  Dearest  321 

stoutly  do  propose  to  save  her,  —  you  that  be 
her  other  brother,  her  truest  brother  of  them 
all." 

Speechless  and  close  the  two  stood,  and  in  the 
stillness  of  the  night,  over  their  wrath,  their  sor 
row,  their  love,  despair,  and  passion ;  over  their 
poignant  yearning  for  happiness,  hovered  the 
mighty  angel  of  renunciation,  his  broad  wings 
drawing  ever  nearer,  his  message  imminent. 

Slowly,  with  lingering  movement,  Nelka 
lifted  her  sad  head ;  softly  she  withdrew  from 
Flemming's  sheltering  arm ;  reluctantly  she 
unclasped  her  clinging  hands  and  stood  apart. 
He  suffered  it. 

The  church  clock  struck  the  half  hour. 

Nelka,  dazed  and  chilly  of  soul,  murmured 
brokenly:  — 

"They  will  be  wondering  —  expecting  me. 
The  carriage  was  to  meet  me  at  my  father's." 

"  I  will  take  the  gracious  comtesse  to  her 
father's." 

As  if  waking  from  a  dream  to  hideous  real 
ity,  and  unable  to  bear  the  burden  of  her  days, 
Nelka,  with  a  little  shuddering  cry,  sprang  to 
refuge,  and  he  gathered  her  in  his  arms  and 
murmured,  desperately,  in  a  sudden  relapse  of 
resolution:  — 


322  Dionysius  the -Weaver's 

"  It  is  reason,  what  she  says,  not  love.  It  is 
truth ;  there  are  other  truths,  strong  and  mas 
terful.  Speak  the  word,  Nelka.  My  life  is 
yours,  yours  the  decision.  Command.  I  obey. 
God  knows  I  would  not  hurt  you,  dear,  yet 
only  come  with  me  and  we  will  — 

"To-morrow,"  broke  in  the  lady,  faintly, 
"  we  will  say  the  rest." 

"  To-morrow,"  he  rejoined  in  profound  agita 
tion,  "  is  my  last  day.  Speak  now,  for  God's 
sake,  Nelka,  —  and  come,  ah,  come! 

Vroni  sank  back,  and  grasped  a  railing  for 
support.  In  her  suspense  it  seemed  that  all 
was  lost.  The  tide  had  turned,  her  strength 
was  spent. 

"  To-morrow,"  trembled  slowly  from  Nelka's 
lips,  "  you  and  I,  my  dearest,  will  say  good 
bye." 

In  the  hush  that  followed,  sounded  a  fine 
bugle-note  calling  a  brave  man  to  the  last 
charge  in  a  lost  but  holy  cause. 

"  Nay,  Herr  Eck,  speak  now  the  farewell 
word,  and  leave  to-night  —  having  a  great 
heart." 

Withdrawing  a  few  steps,  Vroni  turned  away 
and  waited. 


Heart's  Dearest  323 


XVII 

BEER  foamed  in  great  tankards,  the  roast  goose 
was  succulent  and  brown.  At  every  table  in 
the  large  well-lighted  room  were  men  and 
women  in  gala  mood,  and  Vroni  sat,  at  last, 
between  Melchior  and  Jakobine,  flanked  by  a 
group  of  pre-eminently  respectable  old  ser 
vants  of  the  palace,  all  smoking  strenuously. 

Vroni  retreating,  Melchior  and  Jakobine 
had  pursued.  She  not  heeding  them,  they 
had  shown  themselves  disposed  to  serve  her. 
Her  bold  declaration  of  independence,  to 
gether  with  her  appreciated  position  in  the 
household  of  a  prince,  had  won  them.  She 
had  anticipated  this  result  from  the  day  she 
valiantly  belabored  her  brother  and  went 
home  to  weep  for  homesickness.  When 
after  some  weeks  of  deliberation  Melchior 
came  with  Jakobine's  invitation  for  this 
special  evening,  Vroni  accepted  with  the 
quiet  air  of  one  inured  to  family  amenities. 
Afterwards  she  frowned,  smiled,  and  sighed: 

"  The  worth  of  it  know  I  full  well.     Never 


324  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

mind.  'T  is  mayhap  better  so,  better  some 
day  for  Nita  and  my  Dion.  Then  'tis  my 
brother  after  all  be  said,  and  when  I  do 
gaze  upon  his  sad  sheep  face,  my  heart 
doth  mildly  speak  for  him." 

So  she  sat  clear-eyed,  serene,  among  the 
royal  liveries,  at  the  most  distinguished  table, 
where  sententious  politics  rolled  forth  in  the 
most  truly  monarchical  spirit,  and  the  shining 
personages  over-conscious  of  their  dignity 
were  less  merry  than  their  simpler  brethren. 

Vroni  spoke  little,  was  quiet,  content,  with 
drawn  into  herself.  It  was  the  first  time  in 
years  she  had  participated  in  so  much  dis 
sipation.  She  heard  the  heavy  wisdom  of 
the  men ;  and  had  she  desired  could  have  re 
futed  it,  for  her  dogged  reading  and  uncowcd 
thought  had  led  her  far  beyond  their  plati 
tudes.  Melchior  was  at  heart  well  pleased, 
and  Jakobine  grumbled  less  than  her  wont, 
for  Vroni  was  sedate  and  still,  stared  neither 
right  nor  left,  and  wore  a  bonnet  like  a  lady's, 
with  not  a  feather  or  a  flower  on  it.  Her 
dress  too  was  severely  plain.  So  was  the 
Queen's  that  morning  when  Melchior  drove 
her  out.  His  affection,  long  smothered  and 
deadened,  was  reviving,  and  he  was  pleasure- 


Heart's  Dearest  325 

ably  conscious  of  magnanimity.  It  occurred 
to  him  it  would  do  no  harm  to  mention  to 
Sebastian  that  Vroni  gave  full  satisfaction 
at  Prince  Uhl-Rheda's,  and  that  she  made  a 
distinctly  favorable  impression  upon  his  own 
esteemed  colleagues  and  associates.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  Vroni  was  swimming 
alon<7  in  the  full  stream  of  social  rccog- 

o  o 

nition. 

The  room  became  more  crowded,  the  to 
bacco  fumes  denser,  beer  flowed  continually, 
animation  increased. 

"  'T  is  wondrous  strange,"  mused  Vroni, 
"  that  I  did  once  so  prize  this  flocking  and 
herding  together  in  shallow  liveliness  that  I 
did  sell  my  soul  to  get  it." 

Presently  songs  broke  out  here  and  there. 
A  zither  tinkled,  and  a  quartette  of  men's  voices 
swung  into  a  strongly  rhythmic  mountain  mel 
ody.  Across  Vroni's  face  danced  a  sudden 
light  of  youth  and  carelessness.  She  smiled 
at  her  brother  in  gay  reminiscence  of  the  home 
country.  Her  childhood  gleamed  in  her  lumi 
nous  eyes,  and  for  the  moment  the  sad  years 
were  as  naught. 

The  zither  was  swept  to  the  ground  with  a 
crash,  followed  by  shouts  of  angry  expostula- 


326  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

tion.  A  man  strode  forward,  shook  his  fist 
in  menace,  pointed,  uttered  imprecations  and 
ribald  words. 

At  the  first  sound  of  his  voice,  Vroni's  face 
became  rigid,  while  inwardly  she  cowered  and 
shrank  as  under  physical  blows. 

Truths,  Vincenz  Berg  was  telling,  hideous 
truths  —  gesticulating  wildly,  advancing  un 
steadily,  stopped  by  the  tables.  It  was  to 
Vroni  as  if  she  were  exposed  nude,  body 
and  soul,  before  that  throng, — whether  mo 
ments  or  hours  she  knew  not. 

As  in  a  dream,  she  saw  another  figure  stand 
ing  in  the  little  space  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  a  tall  fellow  with  a  tow  head ;  and, 
through  her  fright  and  the  hammering  in 
her  temples  rattled  in  idiotic  repetition  a 
meaningless  haunting  thing  of  long  ago : 

"  The  enemy  is  approaching,  the  enemy,  the 
enemy — over  the  bridge,  the  enemy — ap 
proaching  —  the  enemy  —  enemy —  enemy." 

Calm  and  distinct  above  all  noise  and  mur- 
murings,  she  heard  Tiber  call  to  mine  host :  — 

"Cousin  Wilhclm,  this  man  is  drunk  and 
raving  sheer  craziness.  Let  us  put  him 
out." 

But  before  Cousin  Wilhclm   could   emerge 


Heart's  Dearest  327 

from  his  barricade  of  beer-barrels,  and  take 
active  part  in  the  procedure,  the  man  was 
distinctly  and  very  neatly  out  —  and  not 
immediately  did  Tiber  reappear.  Nodding 
good-humoredly  to  those  who  spoke  to  him 
as  he  was  regaining  his  place,  he  remarked 
carelessly,  and  without  a  glance  toward  Vroni's 
corner : — 

"Tis  naught.  Schnapps  makes  rare  crazy 
jabber.  Let  us  sing." 

Melchior,  whose  blood  had  curdled  with 
horror,  was  recovering  himself  sufficiently  to 
reckon  chances.  The  zither  was  tinkling 
cheerily  again.  The  august  group  in  which 
he  sat  seemed  unconscious  that  a  vulgar  dis 
turbance  had  the  temerity  to  compromise  any 
person  in  their  immediate  society.  One  whose 
back  was  turned  to  the  room  remarked 
superbly :  - 

"  One  of  them  Social  Democrats,  most 
likely,  strayed  in  here  by  mistake,"  and  had 
never  deigned  to  turn  his  head  as  Berg  went 
flying  by. 

Melchior  wondered  feebly  if  all  were 
strangers,  as  might  be  the  case,  or  if,  by  ill- 
luck,  some  present  happened  to  know  his  sis 
ter's  story.  He  dared  not  speak  to  her.  He 


328  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

wriggled  on  his  chair.  He  wished  she  would 
not  look  so  ghastly  pale.  It  would  attract 
attention  from  those  who  otherwise  might  not 
suspect  she  had  been  implicated.  He  felt 
most  truly  wretched,  and  almost  failed  to 
answer  when  an  tinder-butler  spoke.  Jako- 
bine  hitched  her  chair  inch  by  inch  away  from 
Vroni,  who  had  not  stirred,  and  seemed  scarcely 
to  breathe. 

How  long  she  sat  thus,  she  had  no  idea. 
She  looked  at  no  one.  It  was  all  in  vain. 
She  could  never  again  be  acceptable  among 
decent  men  and  women.  The  world  was  blind, 
unfair,  and  deadly  cruel,  but  too  strong  for 
her.  Amid  the  merriment  and  jingling  glasses, 
blank  desolation  encompassed  her,  and  a  ter 
rible  sense  of  the  utter  emptiness  of  life.  Vin- 
cenz's  unforeboded  return  had  been  so  cruelly 
sudden  her  spirit  was  quite  broken.  She 
waited,  irresolute,  longing  to  flee,  dreading 
to  move.  Her  seat  happily  was  near  the 
entrance  door.  At  length,  while  a  well-tem 
pered  burst  of  laughter  occupied  the  board, 
she  stole  out,  and  Melchior  and  Jakobine,  wise 
as  the  serpent,  appeared  not  to  notice  her 
exit. 

She  went  a  short  distance,  and  leaned,  tremb- 


Heart's  Dearest  329 

ling,  against  a  building.  Hearing  a  step 
behind  her,  she  shuddered  ;  but  it  was  a  straight 
firm  step,  and  she  breathed  again. 

"Thou,  Vroni !"  exclaimed  a  joyful  voice, 
and  Tiber  grasped  both  her  hands.  For  many 
moments  she  stood  still  with  closed  eyes. 

"  So  !  'T  is  enough,"  she  muttered  curtly, 
stood  erect  and  straightened  her  bonnet.  "  I 
have  not  thanked  thee,  Tiber.  Seest,  I  can 
not.  Wast  ever  a  good  heart,  and  so,  good 
night  to  thee." 

With  a  fair  show  of  resolution  she  started 
on  her  way. 

"  Nay,  Vroni,  not  so  shallst  thou  shake  me 
off  after  long  years,"  he  began,  stumbling  a 
little  at  the  start  —  his  old  trick  —  though  in 
the  room  just  now  he  had  spoken  with  placid 
ease.  "  Now  thou  art  come  again  "  —  a  great 
glad  ring  in  his  voice  —  "I  be  minded,  God 
willing,  never  more  to  let  thee  go.  By  thy 
leave  I  shall  walk  home  with  thee.  'T  is 
wiser  for  sundry  reasons.  And  that  I  may  not 
do  as  once  I  did,  fearing  my  own  poor  words, 
and  ever  rare  shamefaced  before  thee,  I  ask 
straightway,  willst  be  my  wife?" 

Like  a  man  laying  aside  a  heavy  load,  he 
exhaled  a  huge  breath  of  relief. 


330  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"  There,  't  is  out,  Gottlob!  I  pray  thee, 
Vroni,  answer  not  too  speedily.  Of  thy 
speedy  answer  I  do  fear  me  ere  I  have  said  my 
say.  Seest,  art  a  far  too  tidy  maid  for  me. 
Am  but  a  dullish  fellow  for  one  like  thee. 
Doubt  not  that  I  do  know  it.  Nay,  speak  not 
yet,  Vroni,  for  if  I  be  stopped  in  my  rare  run 
of  speech  mayhap  I  ne'er  can  get  in  pace 
again.  'T  is  nigh  on  six  years  since  I  did  see 
thy  face,  but  have  been  serving  for  thee  ever 
since  —  like  Jacob  in  the  Holy  Bible  for  his 
tidy  maid  the  Rachel.  For  I  Vc  done  all  that 
thou  didst  say  that  night.  Did  leave  Count 
Benno's  service  on  the  grounds  thou  didst 
point  out.  Did  turn  them  over  in  my  mind 
and  find  them  wise.  For  joiner-work  am  not 
unhandy,  and  first  did  lean  that  way,  and 
searched  but  found  no  chance.  So  most 
soberly  did  sit  me  down  and  think  it  out  that 
the  best  of  me  being  my  good  legs,  they  best 
would  serve  me  as  profession.  But  were  it 
not  for  thee,  I  'd  not  be  postman  and  promoted 
twice,  and  for  that  I  have  to  thank  thee  and 
none  else.  Of  much  I  have  to  tell  thee, 
Vroni,  but  't  will  keep.  Secst,  am  mortal 
slow,  but  steady  and  getting  on,  and  fond  of 
thee, — ah,  Vroni,  canst  believe!  since  the 


Heart's  Dearest  331 

day  I  first  did  see  thee,  full  seven  years  gone, 
at  Waldmohr.  So  ist's.  Willst  have  me, 
Vroni  ?  " 

"  Hast  quite  lost  thy  sense?  Didst  not  hear 
that  man?" 

"  Mind  not  what  that  fool  spake  !  None  did 
mind  or  list  or  know  or  care.  Fear  naught." 

"  'T  was  true,  Tiber,  every  word." 

"  I  know  it  —  damn  him  !  "  returned  the  big 
fellow,  a  sob  in  the  throat.  Doubling  a  stout 
fist,  he  extended  his  right  arm  once  or  twice 
straight  before  him  in  the  night.  "Willst  be 
my  wife,  Vroni?  " 

"  Nay,  Tiber,  never." 

"  Dost  like  somebody?  "  he  asked  in  alarm. 

"  I  care  but  for  one  man,  and  he  is  dead  — 
my  father." 

"  Would  I  had  known  him,"  said  Tiber, 
gently.  "  I  mind  me  every  word  thou  once  in 
joy  didst  speak  of  him.  In  thy  grief  I  did 
think  of  thee  many  a  time,  Vroni  —  but  saw 
thce  not,  Count  Benno  sending  me  no  more 
to  town.  'T  was  sorrow  and  vexation ;  but 
now  art  come  again  !  "  he  cried  with  irrepres 
sible  rejoicing.  "  Have  missed  thee  so  sore. 
Was  spying  ever  for  thce  in  the  streets,  in 
every  crowd,  and  for  thy  name  on  letters.  To 


332.  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

two  towns  —  't  was  long  ago  —  I  hied  me  find 
ing  out  your  whereabouts,  but  —  take  it  not  ill 
—  vex  not  thyself —  " 

"  Nay,  Tiber,"  she  said  wearily,  "  speak  out, 
I  pray  thee." 

"  Each  time  I  did  spy  him  there  before  me, 
and  heavy  of  heart  did  turn  about  and  go." 

She  groaned. 

"  Then,  since  I  might  not  see  thy  face,  I  did 
thy  work  that  thou  didst  give  me.  Seest, 
Vroni,  in  the  Post  'tis  not  all  legs.  T  is 
somewhat  head.  Must  learn  there  too,  and 
read,  and  write  reports,  and  cipher.  They 
put  one  in  new  branches.  Mayhap  't  is  on 
the  train,  mayhap  off  in  a  village,  or  with 
the  parcels,  or  at  stamping  all  the  night.  A 
man  must  learn  all  sides  of  it,  that  each  may 
lend  a  hand  when  there  be  pressure.  I  '11 
tell  thcc  what  I  'd  tell  no  other.  Ofttimcs 
when  I  must  drive  a  new  thing  into  my  thick 
pate,  it  seems  just  to  take  marrow  out  of  me. 
Did  I  not  hang  on,  and  give  me  deadly  pains, 
I  'd  get  naught  at  all  of  that  which  other  men 
do  catch  in  play  and  lightness." 

"  Tiber,  thou  art  no  mean  man.  Truly  I  do 
respect  thee,"  she  broke  out  quickly,  with  a 
touch  of  her  old  manner. 


Heart's  Dearest  333 

"Thy  respect  is  good  coin,  Vroni;  yet,  by 
Saint  Peter  and  Saint  Paul,  respect 's  not  all  I 
make  so  bold  as  to  crave  from  thee.  Wast 
my  little  schoolmaster.  Didst  set  me  tasks 
and  tell  me  truths,  but  put  in  me  stoutheart 
edness.  Without  thee  I  had  been  a  block,  a 
lump.  Without  thee  I  had  never  worked 
upon  thy  matters  each  hour  I  did  get.  Until 
then,  in  Count  Benno's  service  I  did  hang 
about  much  time  and  yawn.  So  without  thee 
I  had  not  later  what  was  needed  in  my  tow 
head  —  didst  call  me  Towhead  —  dost  mind 
thee  of  it?  —  for  the  work  that  suits  me  well. 
For  the  racing  and  the  running  in  all  weathers, 
I  do  like,  and  am  greeted  of  many  folk  in 
kindly  wise,  and  the  children  on  my  rounds 
make  friends  with  me  and  spring  with  shouts 
to  meet  me.  Hast  done  a  good  work  on  me. 
But  't  is  for  something  else  I  want  thee.  Wast 
a  brave  little  schoolmaster,  yet  not  for  that  art 
thou  so  dear.  Wast  ever  in  my  heart  —  so 
deep,  so  firm,  so  warm.  Say,  Vroni,  willst 
be  my  wife  ?  " 

"  Truly  art  thou  duller  than  I  did  think," 
she  answered  with  sad  effort,  "  yet  dull  in 
naught  save  one  thing  only.  Mayhap  silence 
were  wiser.  If  I  do  answer  thee  at  all,  't  is 


334  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

but  to  convince  thee  of  thy  great  lack  of 
reason." 

"  Tis  well,  Vroni.     Convince." 

She  enumerated  the  world's  arguments,  one 
by  one,  against  herself.  No  enemy  could  have 
been  more  severe. 

"  'T  is  naught.     It  hath  no  meaning." 

She  painted  in  careful  colors  the  girl  he 
ought  to  marry. 

"  I  like  her  not,"  he  rejoined  calmly.  "  I 
like  but  thee.  Nor  saw  I  ever  anywhere  one 
fit  to  wipe  dust  off  thy  shoes.  Am  dull,  may 
hap,  in  all  things  else  save  that  I  do  see  thee  as 
thou  art,  and  have  the  grace  to  love  thee  with 
all  strength  and  warmth.  Willst  marry  me?  " 

She  sought  to  show  him,  rather  brokenly, 
for  she  felt  weary  and  heartsick,  how  futile  was 
his  hope;  spoke  of  the  children  and  the  conse 
cration  of  her  life  to  them ;  hinted  at  the  sen 
timents  with  which  a  man  would  be  apt  to 
regard  such  children,  so  beloved  by  her. 

He  laughed  a  mellow  laugh  of  incredulity. 

"Thou,  Vroni,  'tis  not  thine  own  wise  way 
of  talk.  Me,  hating  children  !  " 

"And  never  aught  of  peace  of  mind,  since 
scenes  like  that  which  did  to-night  affright  me 
might  blast  me  any  hour." 


Heart's  Dearest  335 

"  That 's  my  business,"  he  muttered  grimly. 
"  Be  thou  at  rest." 

"Tis  my  bad  head  coming  on,  Tiber,  or 
truly  my  words  would  better  and  more 
strongly  warn  thee,  as  they  in  duty  should,  and 
thou  wouldst  plainly  see  thy  great  unwisdom, 
which  any  fool  could  tell  thee." 

"  He  were  in  truth  a  fool  that  did  attempt 
it!  " 

"Tiber,  dost  mind  thee  of  the  enemy  —  the 
enemy?  " 

"If  I  do  mind  me!" 

"  They  gallop  over  all  bridges  in  my  brain  this 
night  so  that  my  thought  is  lame  and  weary." 

"  Dear  head  !  Would  I  might  rest  it  where  I 
would  !  And  would  thou  gavst  me  leave  this 
night  to  take  on  the  morrow  to  the  Rathhaus 
one  of  my  fifty  sheets,  —  clean  penned  and 
without  flies, — -on  which  is  plainly  writ  our 
two  names  joined  as  those  who  do  mean 
wedlock." 

"  Tiber,"  she  said  in  deep  emotion  and 
astonishment,  "familiar  though  thou  be,  'tis 
a  new  man  that  I  do  see  in  thee.  I  know 
thee,  yet  I  know  thee  not." 

"  Truly  't  is  no  less  in  my  own  mind  the 
case,"  he  returned  with  a  little  laugh,  "  for  I 


33 6  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

do  ever  marvel  at  myself  and  at  my  trickling 
speech,  and  am  as  one  newborn.  'Tis  the 
gladness.  So  I  do  ask  thee  still  once  more, 
willst  be  my  wife?  " 

"  Thou  knowst  it  cannot  be.  Bid  me  good 
night  and  leave  me  now.  This  is  the  house. 
I  thank  thee  from  my  heart  for  thy  good  ser 
vice  and  thy  trustiness.  I  bid  thee  good-bye 
and  God-speed,  for  in  kindness  am  I  minded 
to  see  thee  no  more." 

"Na,  na!  'Tis  a  bit  speedy,  Vroni !  'T  will 
never  do.  Must  see,  thyself,  thou  shouldst 
not  fret  a  good  friend  so.  For  that  I  be  — 
thy  good  friend;  though  more  beside  —  by 
the  Kaiser's  beard  I  deny  it  not !  " 

As  she  said  nothing,  he  went  on  presently 
with  a  certain  insidious  boyishness :  - 

"  Thou,  Vroni,  I  did  make  some  little  things 
for  thee,  boxes  and  shelves  in  wood  with  carv 
ing,  and  everywhere  a  curly  V.  'T  is  the 
prettiest  letter  of  them  all,  and  works  in  rarely 
well.  The  toys  are  nigh  enough  to  furnish  a 
house,  for  many  a  night  these  many  years  did 
I  sadly  turn  to  them  for  comfort.  'Tis  naught, 
mayhap  ;  yet  I  '11  not  lie  —  't  is  tidy  work 
enough.  Say,  Vroni,  when  may  I  come,  only 
to  show  thee  such  a  little  box?  " 


Heart's  Dearest  337 

Low  and  strained,  she  answered : 
"  Scest,  Tiber,  I  can  bear  no  more." 
He  took  her  hands  in  his  firm  grasp : 
"  'T  is  true  that  in  my  gladness  I  do  seem 
to  have  small  thought  of  grievous  things  that 
weigh  on  thee.  And  I  would  have  thee  glad 
likewise,  not  mindful  of  old  pain.  Yet  think 
not  I  lack  the  heart  to  understand  thy  thought. 
Though  ciphering  figures  be  not  yet  my  way 
to  take  mine  ease,  oh,  trust  me,  Vroni,  for 
thee  have  I  quite  other  wits.  And  must  I 
touch  upon  that  I  fain  would  bury  out  of 
sight,"-  — he  paused  an  instant,  his  tone  lower, 
very  firm,  the  light  from  the  great  lamp  over 
the  gate  falling  full  on  his  manly  face,  —  "  't  is 
only  this  I'll  say:  had  la  lamb,  or  such 
like  little  thing  and  did  some  sudden  evil 
beast,  a  wolf  or  such,  wound  it  and  hurt  it 
sore,  would  I  then  anger  me  with  the  lamb? 
So,  that  there  be  no  mistake,  I  ask  thee, 
Vroni,  willst  be  my  wife?  " 

She  looked  at  him   intently  for  some  mo 
ments,   and  answered  with  poignant  sadness: 
"  Mayhap  't  was  no  lamb  ;   mayhap  't  was  no 
wolf — yet  art  a  brave  man,  Tiber,"  and  slipped 
through  the  gateway. 


22 


338  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 


XVIII 

"WAS  it  a  blow  I  fairly  did  deserve  must 
bear  it  stoutly  and  whimper  not.  Did  I 
deserve  it  not  then  surely  can  I  bear  it. 
Whether  desert  or  not  desert  and  how  long 
the  heart  must  writhe  for  old  misdeeds —  't  is 
the  Hcrr  Gotfs  business." 

For  weeks  after  Vincenz's  attack,  thus  rea 
soned  Vroni,  day  in,  day  out.  Her  argument 
seemed  sound ;  nevertheless,  after  the  manner 
of  greater  philosophers,  she  suffered  from  heart 
throes  and  depression.  Of  Vincenz  she  saw 
no  more,  but  dreaded  him  perpetually,  and 
relapsed  into  her  old  condition  of  nervous 
apprehension.  Withal,  she  was  discontented 
with  herself,  craving  affection,  thinking 
oftener  of  Tiber  than  was  consistent  with  her 
theories,  and,  worst  grief  of  all,  perceiving 
no  way  to  secure  her  children.  Now  that 
Vincenz  was  lowering,  she  determined  more 
than  ever  to  have  them  with  her,  vaguely 
fearing  him.  Who  could  foresee  what  he 


Heart's  Dearest  339 

in  some  fit  of  irresponsible  rage,  as  recently, 
might  undertake?  They  would  be  safe  only 
with  her.  Yet  she  could  not  transport  them 
from  freedom  to  a  cage  in  town  and  be  absent 
from  them  all  day  at  her  work.  What  then  ? 
What,  indeed? 

On  a  chance  half-holiday  she  walked 
through  busy  streets,  and  pondered  ways  and 
means,  all  ineffectual.  As  she  passed,  rigidly 
plain  in  dress,  and  absorbed  in  thought,  peo 
ple  turned  to  look  at  her,  and  turned  again. 
Most  of  them  had  no  idea  why  their  wander 
ing  gaze  grew  suddenly  intent ;  but  now  and 
then  a  painter  gave  her  an  explicitly  search 
ing  glance,  and,  were  he  so  inclined,  could 
have  informed  them  that  in  her  clear-eyed, 
straight-featured  face  lay  a  rare  calm  and 
a  reserve  of  power  which  amid  the  shifting 
throng  arrested  and  surprised  attention. 

Moving  on  aimlessly,  she  stopped  an  instant 
before  a  broad  window  where  a  gleam  of  color 
attracted  her  half-unconscious  sense;  and  her 
somewhat  mechanical  gaze  merged  into  a  soft, 
half  sad  smile  of  recognition.  She  remained 
some  minutes  rooted  there.  In  her  deep 
hypnosis  was  nothing  at  which  the  passers-by 
could  wonder,  for  she  stood  where  a  perennial 


340  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

group  of  Lot's  wives  was  wont  to  block  the 
pavement,  and  plunge  into  that  rapt  contem 
plation  created  in  some  minds  exclusively  by 
bonnets. 

Vroni  beheld  but  one  object,  —  a  picture,  a 
memory,  a  vision;  in  point  of  fact,  merely  a 
bunch  of  silk  and  velvet  sweet  peas,  in  many 
shades  of  violet,  lying  upon  a  piece  of  old 
gold  plush.  Her  expression  became  singu 
larly  alert.  She  glanced  up  at  the  sign,  which 
with  chaste  simplicity  announced  Lanrc.  A 
series  of  keen  observations  embraced  various 
details.  When  she  turned  from  that  window, 
she  had  again  taken  her  fate  into  her  own 
hands,  and  beneath  the  resolution  visible 
upon  her  countenance,  lurked  a  small  spark 
of  rather  diabolical  humor. 

Not  many  weeks  later,  the  somnolent  Mel- 
chior,  steering  the  yawning  royal  gondola 
through  a  crowded  thoroughfare,  happened  to 
see,  on  a  prominent  square  crossed  by  many 
streets,  a  new  shop,  or  rather  an  old  shop 
with  new  appointments,  for  it  was  taking  on 
whiteness  with  rare  and  discreet  touches  of 
gold.  On  a  breezy  corner  flanked  by  rows 
of  excellent  and  sedate  business  houses,  it 
began  to  assume  a  peculiar  daintiness,  and 


Heart's  Dearest  341 

an  almost  exotic  charm.  Each  day  he  drove 
up,  observing  it  from  afar,  and  deigned  to 
regard  its  developments  with  ever-increasing 
interest.  Large  plate-glass  windows  replaced 
more  ordinary  ones,  and  manifold  changes 
seemed  to  be  going  on  in  the  structure  of  the 
interior.  Melchior  was  conscious  of  a  rather 
ignoble  curiosity,  for  a  man  in  his  position, 
as  to  the  nature  of  the  business  demanding 
this  mild  resplendence  of  environment.  Pic 
tures,  he  presumed. 

Presently  a  sign  went  up,  VERONIQUE,  in 
gold  and  white.  At  this  foreign  name  good 
Melchior  stared  with  benevolent  unconscious 
ness.  Thereafter,  the  chief  windows  dis 
played  a  mass  of  old  gold  plush,  artistically 
rumpled  round  a  centre-piece  of  snowy  linen, 
upon  which  appeared  each  day,  with  a  few 
fresh  flowers,  a  new  scheme  of  decorative  and 
tempting  viands  —  a  charming  still-life  effect. 
When  Melchior  beheld  a  fine  fat  capon  carved 
and  re-adjusted,  an  ancient  bottle  in  its 
honorable  raiment  of  dust  and  cobwebs,  a 
glass  half  filled  with  mellow  Pommard,  and 
a  bunch  of  purple  grapes  lying  negligently 
near : — 

"Pototauscnd!"    he   remarked.       "Who'd 


34-  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

have  suspected  a  cook!  But  'tis  in  grand 
style  and  noble  to  make  your  mouth  water." 

More  and  more,  driving  leisurely  toward 
the  shop,  from  one  or  another  of  various  long 
approaches,  he  enjoyed  the  sight  of  its  white 
and  distinguished  prominence.  As  on  one 
occasion  he  was  turning  slowly  past  it  into  a 
side  street,  he  shot  through  the  open  doors 
one  of  his  swift  oblique  glances  of  explora 
tion  and  had  he  not  been  sustained  by  the 
habit  of  strict  propriety  would  have  tumbled 
down  in  a  heap  from  his  box.  For  he  looked 
straight  into  the  quizzical  eyes  of  his  sister 
Vroni,  who  nodded  carelessly  to  him,  as  though 
she  had  been  bowered  all  her  life  in  white 
and  gold,  turned  her  back  and  went  on,  appar 
ently  giving  instructions  to  a  group  of  maids 
capped  and  aproned  like  herself. 

Despite  his  emotional  uproar,  he  continued 
to  haunt  that  dreaded  spot  which  exerted  an 
irresistible  fascination  upon  him.  From  a 
side  door,  he  saw  two  brown  and  handsome 
children  emerge  with  a  young  nursery  maid, 
and  start  off  for  a  walk.  He  followed  them, 
noted  their  hours,  in  suburban  streets  often 
walked  his  grand  equipage  close  to  the  pave 
ment,  heard  their  prattle,  and  his  heart  felt 


Heart's  Dearest  343 

as  dull  and  empty  as  the  majestic  ark  in  his 
wake. 

Vroni's  first  patron  the  young  assistants 
thought  an  odd  sort  of  customer.  It  was  a 
beautiful  and  great  lady,  whose  hands  Madame 
Veronique  kissed  repeatedly  and  as  quick  as 
a  flash.  Then  madame  led  the  lovely  lady 
into  the  little  private  room  which  looked 
upon  the  garden  where  the  children  played. 
When  after  a  long  time  the  two  came  out,  the 
lady's  eyelids  were  pink  under  her  veil,  and 
madame  accompanied  her  straight  out  to  the 
carriage.  That  day  the  lady  ordered  nothing, 
but  came  soon  again,  and  took  Nita  and  Dion 
out  in  the  woods  with  her;  often  she  called 
for  them ;  often  she  stayed  long  in  the  private 
room ;  and  many  orders  came  from  her,  and 
from  her  fine  friends. 

Melchior  reported  the  Frege  horses  stand 
ing  frequently  and  long  at  Vroni's  door. 

"Ha!"  exclaimed  his  Jakobine,  with  wifely 
explicitness,  "the  jackanapes  comes  bouncing 
up  like  a  very  Hans  Wnrst  !  Yet,"  eying  her 
spouse  malevolently,  "there  be  mettle  in  her 
which  I  do  not  mislike.  Would  all  her  kin 
had  her  backbone." 

Vroni's    second    customer    was    of    another 


344  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

type.  When  madame,  coming  in,  saw  him 
sitting  at  a  little  table  in  the  corner,  the 
young  maids  noted  that  she  colored  rosy-red, 
and  sent  them  promptly  to  their  tasks. 

Tiber,  gravely  but  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye,  continued  to  take  minute  sips  of  coffee, 
and  to  watch  her  benignly  over  his  tiny  cup. 

"  Shouldst  not  come  here,"  she  began,  with 
coolness  and  decision.  "  Knowst  I  did  plainly 
tell  thee  my  meaning." 

Somewhat  wistful,  perturbed  by  her  man 
ner,  he  stared  at  her  a  moment;  but,  taking 
counsel  within  himself,  he  returned  after 
rather  long  deliberation:  — 

"Vroni,  didst  respectfully  invite  the  public 
to  try  thy  fine  cookery.  If  a  postman  be  not 
the  public,  I  pray  thee,  then,  who  is  ?  " 

The  entrance  of  customers  postponed  her 
reply.  Regularly  at  a  certain  hour  every 
day,  appeared  white  Tiber,  good-humored  and 
serene,  sipped  his  nectar  with  incredible  slow 
ness,  and  surveyed  her  to  his  heart's  content. 
On  days  when  he  could  afford  the  time,  he 
prolonged  his  bliss  by  devouring  an  incredi 
ble  number  of  cakes.  There  was  no  chance 
for  private  conversation  in  her  well-filled 
rooms,  but  across  tables  and  strangers'  heads 


Heart's  Dearest  345 

much  was  mutely  discussed  between  the  two. 
She  sometimes  heard  both  children,  even 
Dion,  who  was  apt  to  be  ungracious  to 
strangers,  shout  "Uncle  Tiber!"  before  the 
door.  The  maid  in  charge  related  that  he 
often  walked  with  them  a  short  bit.  Of  all 
this  Vroni  thought  her  share,  yet  had  little 
time  to  dwell  succinctly  upon  the  future,  so 
exhaustively  did  her  bold  venture  absorb  her 
powers. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  great  venture,  for  at  the 
start  she  had  to  risk  her  little  capital.  But 
she  prospered  beyond  her  most  sanguine  ex 
pectation.  Her  fine  cookery  shop  reached 
rich  harvests.  She  worked  early  and  late, 
served  dainties,  lunches,  and  French  dinners 
within  and  without  the  house.  Her  energy, 
elasticity,  inspiration,  and  genius  for  organi 
zation  seemed  inexhaustible,  now  that  Nita 
and  her  Dion  were  within  reach  of  her  arms. 
Her  suite  of  pleasant  rooms  speedily  became 
a  place  of  fashionable  resort  for  afternoon 
tea,  and  her  kitchen,  in  vista,  was  a  sort  of 
grill  room  bright  with  blue  and  white  tiles, 
and  gleaming  metal,  while  she  and  her  corps 
of  pretty  and  clever-looking  maids  commanded 
the  situation  with  calm  ease. 


346  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

Count  Benno  and  his  clanking  comrades 
honored  her  with  orders,  often  with  their 
presence,  and  vowed  she  was  "pyramidal.'" 
She  provided  grand  dinners  for  the  embassies. 
Praises  not  only  of  her  cuisine,  but  of  her 
judgment,  shrewdness,  immense  experience, 
and  taste,  as  well  as  of  her  straight  dealings, 
sounded  on  all  sides.  People  greatly  approved 
her  manners,  too,  and  the  discreet  tone  of  her 
establishment.  One  knew  at  once,  they  said, 
with  what  kind  of  woman  one  was  dealing, 
which  was  such  a  comfort  in  these  degenerate 
days.  Her  serious  investigation  of  the  char 
acter  and  quality  of  guests  at  projected  dinners, 
her  respectful  attitude  toward  her  business, 
and  many  of  her  remarks  were  cited  as  orig 
inal  and  amusing.  She  was  considered  a 
rather  unique  personality. 

The  height  of  youthful  feminine  ambition 
was  to  be  married  at  St.  Ambrosius  and  have 
Veronique  do  the  breakfast.  A  high  person 
age  at  Court  remarked  it  was  a  mystery  to 
him,  how  the  town  had  existed  so  long  with 
out  her,  for  when  she  arrived,  it  was  obvious 
she  had  simply  to  slip  into  the  place  which 
had  always  been  waiting  for  her  genius.  Mel- 
chior,  at  this  epoch,  drew  up  his  horses  to  ask 


Heart's  Dearest  347 

the  children  if  they  were  aware  he  was  their 
uncle.  Nita  affably  accepted  him  forthwith, 
but  Dion,  with  a  stare  of  haughty  disapproval, 
declared  he  "believed  it  not." 

Across  this  prosperity  lay  a  black  shadow. 
Sometimes  it  stealthily  followed  the  children. 
It  had  walked,  too,  behind  her,  when  for  some 
special  festival  she  had  gone  to  inspect  a 
dining-room,  for,  as  the  Japanese  their  flowers, 
she  arranged  dinners  with  exquisite  adjust 
ment  to  the  essential  meaning  of  their  envi 
ronment.  The  shadow  cultivated  the  habit 
of  standing  at  her  windows  and  peering  in, 
with  a  distasteful  and  faded  jauntiness.  It 
seemed  a  shadow  of  sinister  omen,  and  it 
appalled  her.  There  were  nights  when  she 
lay  sleepless,  mourning  bitterly  that  she  never 
could  escape  from  the  past. 

In  her  private  room  where  were  her  desk, 
ledger,  and  various  account-books,  was  a 
nearly  life-sized  photograph  of  the  weaver  at 
his  loom.  She  possessed,  among  her  few 
relics  of  him,  a  rude  tin-type  made  by  a 
pccller,  in  return  for  his  dinner.  He  had  pro 
posed  to  take  her,  but  she  gleefully  piloted 
him  into  the  front  room,  and  captured  her 
father.  The  artist  to  whom  she  gave  her 


348  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

order  had  wrought  the  reproduction  and  en 
largement  with  peculiar  sympathy  and  skill. 
Dionysius,  in  soft  lines  and  plastic  modelling, 
occupied  nearly  one  whole  wall.  The  genius 
of  the  place,  he  confronted,  with  deep  eyes 
and  kindly  but  direct  questioning,  every  one 
who  crossed  the  threshold. 

Sitting  in  her  low  chair,  her  head  thrown 
back  upon  her  hands,  Vroni,  late  at  night,  as 
was  her  wont,  wistfully  communed  with  the 
weaver. 

"What  willst  from  me?  Dost  ask  some 
thing  with  thine  eyes.  Yet  smilst  as  though 
thou  fain  would  say,  'My  foolish  Madel. ' 
Truly,  't  is  so.  In  which  thing  then  be  I 
most  foolish?  'T  is  Vincenz  surely,  that  thou 
meanst,  for  he  doth  try  me  and  affright  me 
sorely,  fearing  I  know  not  what.  'T  is  a 
grievous  and  mean  condition  to  be  sore  afraid. 
Would  I  knew  how  to  end  it !  I  take  it  there 
be  a  remedy  for  all  ills,  did  one  know  how  to 
find  it." 

Tranquil,  half  amused,  the  weaver  looked 
up  from  his  work  and  contemplated  her.  Ever 
searching  for  his  message,  she  gazed  thought 
fully  into  the  life-like  picture-eyes. 

"Smilst.     'Tis  little  worth,  'tis  naught;  — 


Heart's  Dearest  349 

is  that  thy  meaning  ?  "  With  a  great  start  of 
self-conviction :  "  Dost  mean  I  did  ever  make 
great  talk  of  scorn  for  cowards,  yet  do  shiver 
and  shake  myself?  Meanst  there  's  naught  in 
life  worth  such  affright?  And  Vincenz  is 
but  a  mortal  man,  no  more,  no  less?  Ach, 
Vdterle,  hast  right  and  reason.  I  '11  do  it  — 
what  thou  meanst.  'T  is  a  bitter  pill,  but 
worse  ones  did  I  swallow  many  and  ofttimes. 
At  any  rate,  't  is  ill  to  hoot  at  others,  yet  for 
months  and  years  to  fear  and  quake.  Truly 
do  I  shame  myself,  and  wonder  much." 

In  spite  of  her  brave  convictions,  she  sighed 
from  time  to  time,  and  was  sick  at  heart  as 
she  considered  her  course  of  action. 

One  rainy  day,  the  first  time  she  again  saw 
Vincenz  haunting  the  precincts,  she  went  to 
the  door,  bade  him  good-morning,  and  asked 
him  to  come  in.  With  a  look  as  if  he  doubted 
whether  he  had  heard  aright,  he  followed  her 
to  her  room,  where  the  weaver's  eyes  met  him 
as  he  entered,  and  impressed  him  unpleasantly. 

Vroni,  very  pale,  remarked: — • 

"  I  have  to  speak  with  thee.  But  first,  per 
haps,  thou  'lit  taste  this  to  refresh  thee.  'T  is 
the  coffee  Veronique  of  which,  doubtless, 
thou  hast  heard." 


350  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

Pushing  the  cup  aside,  he  said,  with  a  faint 
sneer : — 

"Art  in  a  snug  nest." 

"Truly,"  she  answered  in  a  calm  voice, 
but  her  hands  trembled. 

"  Canst  laugh  at  a  poor  fool  whose  life  thou 
didst  ruin,  unless  it  be  that  in  thy  good  luck 
thou  mostly  dost  forget." 

"  I  laugh  not,  Vincenz,  and  forget  not. " 

"What  willst  say  or  do,  that  thou  didst 
stoop  to  call  me  in?  Am  little  minded  to 
believe  it  be  for  love,"  he  added  bitterly, 
"though  knowing  thee,  one  knows  not  what 
strange  whim  may  mount  into  thy  head." 

She  moved  abruptly,  and  said  somewhat 
curtly :  — 

"Art  right,  Vincenz.      'T  is  not  for  love." 

"For  all  that  I  do  know,"  he  flung  in  sus 
picious  jealous  fashion  at  her,  "  't  is  to  mock 
me.  Yet  canst  not  mock  in  all  things.  'T  is 
my  will  to  see  my  children.  I  am  their  father. 
Show  me  them." 

Vroni  rose  and  with  a  rigid  hand  grasped 
a  chair-back.  Anticipating  a  refusal  he  as 
sumed  a  hostile  and  threatening  air.  But 
she,  to  his  amazement,  replied  in  a  low  and 
strongly  controlled  voice :  — 


Heart's  Dearest  351 

"Art  their  father  and  shalt  see  them.  'T  is 
one  reason  why  I  bade  thee  to  come  in." 

She  turned  to  call  them,  stopped,  looked 
back  imploringly  at  him,  deadly  anxiety, 
prayer,  and  warning  seeking  utterance;  but 
restraining  them  all,  she  said  only, —  turning 
again,  her  hand  upon  the  door :  — 

"I  do  pray  thee,  Vincenz,  to  be  minded 
they  be  very  young  and  till  this  moment, 
happy." 

For  reply  he  drummed  with  his  fingers  on 
the  table,  and  smiling  with  a  touch  of  the  old 
complacency  looked  out  the  window. 

Nita  advanced  graciously,  gave  him  her 
hand,  and  asked  with  the  air  of  one  embar 
rassed  by  riches  in  this  respect:  — 

"Which  of  my  nuncles  is  it?" 

Vroni  hesitated. 

"A  friend,"  she  said. 

"Hast  forgot  thy  coffee,  Nuncle  Friend," 
Nita  reminded  him.  "Hast  not  plenty 
sugar?" 

Vincenz  smiled  slightly  upon  the  charming 
little  person  but  cared  no  more  for  her  be 
cause  the  boy,  standing  apart  and  scowling, 
roused  the  man's  spirit  of  conquest. 

"  Willst  not  come  to  me?  " 


352  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

Beneath  a  mass  of  overhanging  curls,  Dion's 
great  sombre  eyes  peered  out  like  a  wild 
thing's  under  a  bush. 

"Nay,  I  like  thee  not,"  he  answered,  and 
to  all  solicitation  remained  obdurate. 

Vroni  stood  waiting,  passive,  mistrust  and 
fear  strong  within  her.  She  loathed  the 
thought  that  Vincenz  could  lay  his  hand  on 
Dion.  Her  instinct  was  to  snatch  him  up 
and  flee  with  him.  Suddenly  she  became 
aware  of  her  wild  notions,  and  that  Vincenz 
at  the  moment  wore  no  formidable  but  a 
weary  and  singularly  disconcerted  air. 

"If  thou  do  play  to  him,"  she  said  softly, 
"wilt  win  him  fast  enough.  'T  is  in  the 
nursery  —  his  piano." 

Dion  stood  motionless  by  the  player,  grad 
ually  drew  nearer,  laid  his  head  against  Vin- 
cenz's  shoulder  and  when  he  rose  slipped  a 
confiding  hand  in  his,  and  led  him  back  to 
Vroni 's  room. 

"Go  now  to  Brigitte,  little  ones." 

"Good-bye,  Nuncle  Friend,"  piped  Nita. 

"Mayst  play  to  me  again  on  my  piano," 
said  Dion,  solemnly. 

"  Had  I  them  and  thee  I  were  a  better 
man,"  began  Vincenz,  moodily,  and  meeting 


Heart's  Dearest  353 

the  singular  eyes  of  the  man  on  the  wall, 
glanced  uneasily  out  the  window. 

"Mayhap,  but  I  do  doubt  it.  'T  is  thy 
meaning  at  the  moment,  but  at  the  doors 
of  every  gin-shop,  loiter  little  children  wait 
ing  to  lead  their  fathers  home.  Hast  other 
children  who  did  ne'er  prevail  on  thee  in  any 
wise.  Nay,  Vincenz,  be  not  fierce  with  me. 
'T  is  far  from  my  intent  to  vex  thee.  I  fain 
would  but  answer  thee  with  sense  and  truth. 
Nor  can  aught  uproot  the  thought  in  me, 
which  doth  grow  firmer  every  day  I  live,  that 
't  is  only  one's  own  heart,  plodding  sternly, 
that  doth  by  slow  degrees  gain  strength  against 
itself  —  with  Heaven's  help,"  she  added  to 
herself,  "  in  ways  that  be  most  marvellous. " 

"  Hast  it  so  good  about  thee,  canst  well 
afford  thy  wisdom, "  he  retorted  in  dull  rage; 
for  she  was  still  desirable  because  beyond 
his  reach,  the  remote  compassion  of  her  voice 
irritated  him,  and  the  comfort  of  her  sur 
roundings  mocked  his  inability  to  share  it. 
"  Dost  live  in  plenty.  Hast  even  thine  own 
serving  maids  to  wait  on  thee;  while  I,  'tis 
true,  am  fallen,  and  no  more  that  which  I  was 
of  old." 

"  I  have  no  servants,  seeing  I  do  work  the 


354  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

most  and  largest.  I  do  but  train,  from  my 
experience,  my  blithe  apprentices  for  their 
life-work.  Vincenz,  I  do  spy  thy  thought 
which,  trust  me,  is  unsound.  Were  I  with 
thee  I  'd  ne'er  have  had  these  rooms  which 
much  do  busy  thy  reflection.  When  thou 
dost  turn  that  in  thy  mind,  willst  see  the 
straightness  of  its  reasoning.  Nor  is  it  sense 
for  me  to  dwell  on  that  which  I  and  the  chil 
dren  might  have  been  with  thee,  since  'tis 
but  sheer  imagining.  'T  is  other  business  I 
would  bespeak  with  thee." 

"In  truth,  I  were  right  curious  to  hear  it," 
he  muttered  sullenly,  regarding  her  despon 
dently,  yet  with  vague  expectancy. 

She  moistened  her  lips  and  throat  with  a 
swallow  of  the  untouched  cold  coffee,  and 
looked  one  instant  at  the  weaver. 

"Vincenz,  for  some  things  I  have  to  thank 
thee,  for  others  I  do  crave  thy  pardon." 

With  a  bound  he  straightened  himself  and 
stared  with  widely  opened  eyes. 

"I  did  fear  thee.  'T  was  a  wrong  to  thee 
and  me.  I  fear  thee  no  more.  I  did  hate 
thee.  I  hate  thee  no  more.  For  fearing  and 
hating  thee  I  do  shame  myself,  and  pray  thee 
pardon  me.  New  thoughts  of  thee  are  come 


Heart's  Dearest  355 

—  are  sent  to  me.  I  see  thee  otherwise.  Art 
but  a  mortal  man,  Vincenz,  and  I  am  minded 
't  is  a  blame  to  fear  aught  on  earth  —  save  sin. 
Art  not  too  happy.  Would  I  could  see  thee 
brave  and  cheery  at  thy  work  again.  Didst 
have  a  liking  for  me  once  —  " 

She  hesitated.  Vincenz  had  shaded  his 
eyes  with  his  hands.  In  her  face  was  a  poig 
nant  mournfulness. 

"Well,  as  to  that,"  she  went  on,  low  and 
sadly,  "I  fain  would  thank  thee  for  all  of 
good  in  thy  affection.  I  do  thank  thee  for 
gentle  hours  many  a  time.  For  the  rest,  I 
do  hold  thee  not  wholly  without  mercy  to  be 
blamed.  'T  is  a  hard  matter  to  disentangle 
threads  of  right  and  wrong  that  ofttimes  do 
mix  themselves  most  wondrously,  and  what  be 
wrongest  in  this  world  —  na,  men  roar  loud 
where  the  Herr  Gott  keeps  silence.  But  this 
I  '11  say,  Vincenz,  I  take  it  there  be  somewhat 
to  plead  for  thee,  both  by  way  of  thy  quick 
silver  nature  and  the  poor  breeding  they  did 
hang  on  thee.  And  whatever  blame  be  mine 

o 

by  right  —  how  much,  how  little,  I  discuss 
not,  neither  do  I  measure  —  I  do  now  take 
upon  myself.  I  hate  thee  not.  I  wish  thee 
well.  So  ist's." 


356  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

The  man  had  buried  his  head  in  his  arms 
upon  the  table  and  was  sobbing  heavily,  nor 
was  she  quite  dry-eyed. 

After  some  time,  he  raised  his  head,  and 
said  gently :  — 

"  'T  is  probable  that  thou  dost  mean  to 
marry." 

"Leastwise,  I  do  weigh  that  matter." 
"Then  canst  no  longer  wish  me  well." 
Touched  by  his  submission,  she  replied:  — 
"Nay,  henceforth  I  wish  thee  well.      And 
if  I  do  marry,  which  may  or  may  not  be,  't  is 
a  just  man  —  juster  than  any  I  have  known, 
save  one." 

After  a  long  pause,  he  asked  humbly :  — 
"  Is   it  thy  meaning    I  may    ever    come  to 
greet  thee,   if    I   be  mindful    to  vex  thce  no 
more?     Forget  thee,  Vroni,  can  I  never,  and 
—  I  did  like  the  cloudy  little  kid." 

"Take  it  not  ill  that  I  do  say  thee  nay," 
she  returned  with  great  gentleness.  "  Seest, 
Vincenz,  it  were  painful,  and  rarely  awkward 
at  this  present;  nor  can  I  wholly  trust  thy 
flickering  mood,  which  now  is  light,  and  in 
a  moment,  darkness.  But  this  I  tell  thee 
straight  and  sure.  Art  thou  ill  or  in  need 
I  '11  be  thy  friend.  Dost  turn  from  drink  and 


Heart's  Dearest  357 

slippery  ways,  I  '11  rejoice  —  none  more.  Dost 
look  about  and  try  to  comfort  where  thou 
hast  caused  much  misery,  —  dost  have  some 
care  of  children  joyless  through  thee,  yet  on 
whom  thou  in  sheer  carelessness  didst  bestow 
the  gift  of  life,  I  '11  honor  thy  endeavor.  Yet 
dost  thou  naught  of  this,  art  thou  wrong  and 
wretched,  I  '11  not  turn  wholly  from  thee. 
I  '11  be  fair  to  thee,  and  seek  no  more  to  for 
get  thou  art  the  father  of  my  children.  In 
time,  't  is  my  most  firm  intent  to  tell  them 
all.  I  am  minded  neither  to  speak  nor  act 
lies  to  them,  God  helping  me.  In  time,  may 
hap,  I  will  receive  thee.  I  promise  naught. 
I  but  say  mayhap.  On  thine  own  self  doth 
that  depend.  Yet  once  more  say  I  strongly, 
I  do  wish  thee  well.  Canst,  if  thou  willst, 
set  thy  teeth  hard  and  be  a  man.  Go  now, 
Vincenz.  Trust  somewhat  to  the  years  that 
ofttimes  do  work  in  mercy  for  us.  God  speed 
thee.  Lebewohl" 


35  8  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 


XIX 

TIBER'S  queer  blondness,  shabby  blue  uniform, 
and  placid,  somewhat  humorous  observation 
entrenched  themselves  no  longer  behind  Lil- 
iputian  mocha-cups  and  ramparts  of  tiny 
cakes.  His  corner  was  vacant  many  days; 
none  had  seen  him ;  Vroni  missed  him  acutely, 
and  when  late  one  evening  he  was  announced, 
and  shown  into  her  sanctum  where  she  sat 
writing,  not  penning,  to  Armand  Gireaud,  her 
heart  began  to  beat  rather  fast. 

Tiber,  unsmiling,  sad  indeed,  seemed  to  enter 
with  a  definite  purpose.  He  sat  down  and 
seemed  about  to  divulge  it,  when  he  was  ar 
rested  by  the  consciousness  of  the  presence 
of  a  third  party.  Long  and  in  silence  he 
looked  at  the  weaver. 

"  Art  strangely  like  him,"  he  said  very  gravely, 
and  sighed. 

"What  hast  thou,  Tiber?  Art  little  like 
thyself." 

"  Vroni,  have  come  to  take  my  leave  of 
thee." 


Heart's  Dearest  359 

"  Art  going  away?  "  she  said  slowly. 

"Nay,  but,"  after  a  pause,  "I  do  give  thee 
up." 

She  sat  quite  still  and  eyed  him  steadily. 

"  'T  is  wise,"  she  returned  at  length.  "  'T  is 
doubtless  very  wise.  'T  is  as  I  bade  thee," 
but  her  tone  was  lifeless. 

"  Surely  art  not  surprised  ? " 

"  It  matters  little  if  I  be  surprised  or  no, 
since  I  do  tell  thee  thou  dost  act  most 
wisely."  Her  voice  was  toneless  and  her  ap 
proval  numb. 

He  leaned  forward,  in  his  good  face  great 
trouble  and  yearning :  — 

"  Why  shouldst  thou  be  surprised?  Art  so 
clear  in  thy  mind.  Dost  surely  right  well  see 
my  case.  I  had  not  thought  to  speak  it  out, 
it  stands  writ  so  plain  before  all  eyes  that 
thou  art  now  a  dame  too  great  and  fine  and 
rich  for  me." 

"  Sapristi  !  "   she  ejaculated  softly. 

Poor  Tiber  could  not  look  at  her  and  say^ 
what  he  had  to  say,  so  he  contemplated  the 
weaver,  whose  kindliness  encouraged  him. 

"  When  I  did  find  thee  I  did  thank  my  God. 
Nor  was  I  too  dismayed  by  the  cool  welcome, 
so  sorely  much  had  hurt  thee  first  and  last. 


360  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

The  hope  within  me  was  strong  enough  for 
ten  men  in  like  case.  Was  so  bold  as  already 
to  cast  mine  eye  on  cottages,  and  did  spy  one 
building  on  the  outskirts,  nigh  to  fields  and 
meadows  for  the  children.  For  I  do  earn,  if 
humbly,  yet  enough  to  keep  a  wife  and  thrifty 
house.  Thou  didst  see  me  march  in  here  in 
brave  humor,  not  abashed.  And  at  the  first, 
did  slyly  praise  myself  for  my  methods,  and 
saw  things  straight  before  me,  and  had  great 
joy  and  pride  in  thee  and  thy  good  manage 
ment.  But  as  I  came  and  came,  and  saw  thee 
great  thyself  among  the  great,  the  truth  began 
to  dawn  on  me." 

"  What  great  marvel  hast  discovered  ?  "  she 
murmured,  her  elbows  on  the  table,  her  chin 
on  her  clasped  hands,  her  face  soft,  inviting, 
tenderly  quizzical. 

But  he,  his  grave  eyes  always  uplifted,  went 
steadily  on  with  his  tale :  - 

"  Moreover  the  little  maid  Brigitte,  in  great 
pride  of  thee,  did  make  known  to  me  what 
thou  hast  done  for  thy  sister  on  the  Alp." 

"  Ha,  we  needs  must  muzzle  that  mouth 
piece  !  " 

"Brigitte  did  relate  with  glee  how  that  her 
mother  and  her  lame  tailor  father  and  the  many 


Heart's  Dearest  361 

many  children  were  living  in  the  cottage  by 
what  she  did  call  the  Witch  Tooth,  and  had 
naught  to  pay  save  to  keep  things  straight. 
That  thou  through  a  man  of  law  hast  bought 
the  place  for  a  goodly  sum  of  thy  brother 
Sebastian,  thy  brother  Melchior  approving, 
and  neither  did  know  the  purchaser.  That 
then  through  thy  man  of  law  hast  let  repairs 
be  made  and  all  claims  paid,  and  a  spacious 
wing  be  added  for  room  and  comfort's  sake." 

"  Ha,  't  is  not  a  kingly  pleasure-Schloss  !  " 
and  Vroni  smiled  through  a  sudden  shimmer, 
yet  seemed  half  ashamed.  "  Seest,  Tiber," 
she  pleaded  deprecatingly,  "  the  deed 's  far 
less  than  thy  words  do  sound.  'T  is  plain 
living  on  our  Alp.  Yet  I  do  love  it  every 
inch,  and  could  not  see  the  old  place  pass  to 
strangers.  Fain  would  I  have  my  children 
wild  and  frolicsome  there  in  summer-time; 
and  when  the  town  grows  stifling-tame,  and  I 
do  pine  for  space  and  winds,  and  homesick 
ness  is  strong  on  me,  fain  would  I  turn  me  to 
the  hills." 

Tiber  watched  her  as  she  spoke,  but  looked 
off,  continuing:  - 

"  Hearing  the  same,  I  did  seem  to  get  a  chill 
and  hollowness  in  my  inside.  '  Willst  wed  a 


362  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

capitalist,'  said  I  to  myself,  '  thou  that  art  of 
the  plain  folk  and  of  no  account  ?  '  Then  the 
little  maid  in  chirping  pride  did  boast  to  me 
what  thou  didst  earn  last  month.  That  sum 
did  knock  me  flat.  Straightway  I  hied  me 
home,  and  there  did  pound  my  head  in  rage, 
and  cry,  '  Wast  e'er  a  dolt  and  fool,  and  stayst 
it  all  thy  life.'  "  Turning  toward  her  he  added 
firmly,  "  Beside  all  which,  't  is  unseemly  a 
man  do  hang  upon  the  earnings  of  his  wife. 
Hast  heard.  So  isfs." 

Vroni  had  risen  as  he  spoke,  and  drawn  ever 
nearer,  smiling,  smiling;  stood  close  to  him, 
put  two  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and,  many 
swift  shades  of  feeling  working  in  her  face, 
said  tremulously:  — 

"  Towhead,  I  be  minded  thou  and  I  much 
do  beat  about  the  bush.  Is  my  great  wealth 
thine  only  pain,  canst  be  easy  in  thy  mind. 
Does  naught  else  hold  us  twain  apart  't  were 
a  blame  on  us  to  make  a  mountain  of  a  mole 
hill.  'T  is  true  much  gold  passeth  through 
my  hands,  but  I  must  needs  spend  largely  to 
keep  my  great  machine  in  running  order.  For 
my  children  shall  I  hoard  only  in  modesty  and 
simple  reckoning.  So  cruel  be  I  not  as  to 
steal  from  their  future  lives  the  needs  of 


Heart's  Dearest  363 

hearty  work  —  which  is  a  help  and  blessing. 
For  the  rest,  we  will  promptly  use  for  others, 
as  we  do  go  along,  the  most  that  I  may  earn,  — 
in  ways  of  which  we  '11  later  speak,  wherein 
thy  sense  and  trustiness  will  greatly  serve  the 
purpose.  So  much  for  the  money  that  doth 
so  vastly  awe  thee,  to  thy  shame,  say  I.  Did 
hold  thee  to  be  braver.  Hast  made  me  say 
outright:  '  Towhead,  will  take  thee,  if  so  be 
thou  'lit  take  me.'  " 

The  latter  half  of  her  speech  was  more  or 
less  muffled  and  interrupted.  Much  and  long 
they  spoke  that  night,  but  longer  were  their 
long  silences. 

"  So  take  it  not  ill  that  I  do  look  at  marriage 
with  mine  own  eyes,"  said  Vroni,  at  the  close 
of  some  recital,  "  and  't  is  fair  to  say  to  thee, 
Tiber,  that  much  as  I  do  trust  thee  and  our 
chance  of  peace  together,  prove  we  not  true 
companions,   I  for    thee  and    thou  for    me,    I 
should  hold  it  baseness  to  house  together." 
He  regarded  her  with  benevolent  irony : 
"  Ha,  Vroni,  willst  divorce  me  ere  the  knot 
be  tied?  " 

"  'T  is  but  my  thought  I  fain  would  tell  thee." 
"  So  God  will,  we  shall  have  time  for  tell 
ing  thoughts." 


364  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"  Seest,  Tiber,  I  do  love  thec  well,  and  trust 
thee  utterly,  yet  would  not  rush  blindly  — 

"  Na  !  Hast  the  face  to  call  this  rushing  !  " 
he  protested  with  a  queer  grimace.  "  'T  will 
be  a  decade  soon  since  I  first  did  court 
thee." 

She  smiled  but  persisted  :  — 

"  Have  worked  my  way  and  thought  my 
thoughts  alone,  and  pray  thy  patience  do  I 
plainly  say  thou  shalt  be  my  friend  and  com 
rade,  my  loving  husband  and  my  dear.  But 
not  even  thou  canst  with  the  gift  of  thy  good 
name  change  aught  of  good  or  ill  in  my  past 
life.  And  't  is  for  no  protection  that  I  do 
marry  thee.  Hast  heard  ?  " 

He  took  her  face  between  his  hands  and 
scrutinized  it  fondly :  — 

"  Ah,  Vroni,  Vroni,  canst  not  yet  believe  I 
understand  thec?"  he  murmured  with  great 
tenderness,  adding,  after  a  moment:  "Yet 
since  the  Lord  did  make  me  big  and  burly, 
willst  not  vex  thy  dear  heart  overmuch,  be  I 
so  bold  as  to  hold  an  umbrella  over  thec 
'gainst  stormy  weather?" 

"Truly,  that  much  I'll  take  not  ill.  Art 
the  sort  of  man  I  like,  Towhead,"  she  mur 
mured  with  emotion.  "  Art  a  brave  lad." 


Heart's  Dearest  365 

"Ay,  and  good  to  dogs,"  he  responded 
dryly. 

"  Thatwe  can  sit  and  laugh  ! "  she  exclaimed. 

"  T  is  high  time." 

"  I  could  fear  having  a  so  peaceful  heart 
and  restfulness  that's  new  to  me." 

"T  is  well  known  the  Lord  takes  care  the 
trees  grow  not  as  high  as  the  sky.  Yet  I  fear 
naught,  now  that  'tis  plain  I  be  not  the  fifth 
wheel  of  thy  coach." 

"  Ei!  Coaches  and  such  grand  connections 
we  '11  leave  to  Melchior.  'T  is  enough  for  the 
whole  kinship." 

"  Many  a  time  doth  he  sail  gloriously  past 
my  Madame-chen' s  door,  I  mark  me.  Cometh 
also  even  on  his  legs,  my  little  friend  Brigitte 
did  let  fall.  I  had  not  thought  thy  brother 
was  possessed  of  legs." 

"  'T  was  Nita  took  him  by  the  hand  and 
led  him  in.  Poor  Melchior !  Ofttimes  was  I 
angered  hotly  with  him,  yet  my  affection 
clings.  He  hath  a  rare  joy  in  the  children, 
and  for  my  life  I  know  none  other  in  his  dull 
days.  'T  were  pity  not  to  let  him  freshen 
himself  with  them.  I  did  give  him  tea  and 
civil  greeting  as  to  one  who  cometh  daily  — 
no  more,  no  less.  Likewise  to  his  Jakobine, 


366  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

who  soon  after  did  march  in  staidly  with 
another  old  tea-aunty,  gave  I  fair  courtesy,  and 
did  serve  the  tray  myself,  which  I  did  mark 
was  pleasing  to  their  worships." 

"Art  a  brave  lad,  Vroni,  and  good  to 
dogs !  " 

"  I  fain  would  tell  thee,  Tiber,  if  thou  wilt 
grant  me  time  to  speak  a  little  sense,  that 
Nita  collects  '  Nuncles,'  where  other  children 
seek  for  butterflies  and  postage  stamps.  'T  is 
a  motley  lot." 

"  I  know  — being  one  of  them." 

"  And  Nuncle  Crossing-Sweeper  and  Nuncle 
Bootblack,  the  latest  whom  she  doth  lead  in 
sweetly  for  broken  cakes  and  scraps.  Nuncle 
Crossing-Sweeper  is  a  friendly  old  man.  But 
Nuncle  Bootblack,  though  his  dancing  eyes 
do  please  me,  is  sorely  tempted  of  my  goodies, 
and  it  were  ill-advised  to  leave  him  unmo 
lested  in  my  storeroom." 

"  Vroni." 

"White  Tiber?" 

"Knowst  all  thou  dost  earn  will  belong  to 
me?" 

"  What  meanst?"     She  raised  her  head. 

"  By  law," 

"  Ah,  yes.     By  law,     'T  is  true.     I  had  for- 


Heart's  Dearest  367 

got.     Na,  have  already  said,  we  '11  ne'er  quar 
rel  about  money." 

"'T  is  a  rarely  funny  old  goodwife — the  law," 
he  remarked  thoughtfully. 

"  Truly,  many  and  ofttimes." 

Presently  Tiber  began  a  low  mellow  laugh, 
and  laughed  on  in  quiet  enjoyment,  pausing 
but  to  chuckle  again. 

"  Look  at  thee  and  me,  Vroni,  at  thine  work 
and  at  mine  ;  at  thine  head  and  at  my  own ;  at 
thy  rich  earnings  and  at  my  salary ;  nay,  more, 
look  at  all  thou  hast  bravely  done  with  thine 
own  single  strength ;  and  to  think  the  fruits  of 
this,  thy  merit  and  thy  deed,  are  shortly  mine 
to  have  and  to  control,  both  what  thou  hast 
laid  by  and  what  thou  still  dost  earn ;  thy  cot 
tage  on  the  Alp  and  thy  goodies  in  the  store 
room.  Truly  'tis  so  passing  droll  a  horse 
might  laugh.  'Tis  monstrous,  yet  'tis  law." 

"  'T  is  not  the  only  monstrous  thing  and 
not  the  worst,"  she  responded  very  low  ;  and 
the  postman  drew  her  closer,  with  a  larger, 
higher,  and  more  manly  tenderness  than 
Count  Benno  von  Vallade  had  ever  felt  for 
any  woman. 

"At  least  'tis  one  I  shall  know  how  to 
manage." 


368  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

"How  so?" 

"  By  some  sort  of  special  contract,  I  suppose. 
Am  unlearned  in  these  matters,  yet  know  I 
what  be  sense  and  what  I  will." 

"  I  pray  thee,  Tiber  !  Are  not  thy  upright 
ness  and  thy  love  stronger  than  any  contract? 
It  irks  me  to  think  of  promise  great  or  small 
'twixt  thee  and  me." 

"Nay,  Vroni,"  he  said  firmly.  "A  little 
chat  of  one  thing  and  another  I  needs  must 
have  with  thy  man  of  law.  In  this  case  I  do 
hold  it  for  the  best.  Besides,"  he  added,  seeing 
her  look  grave,  "  there  be  that  which  I  fain 
would  have  signed  and  sealed  in  my  behalf. 
I  would  buy  thy  cakes  at  thy  lowest  wholesale 
price.  Nay,  more,  it  would  appear  but  just 
that  thou  shouldst  grant  me  a  commission,  see 
ing  that  I  did  gorge  myself  with  them  in  a 
way  that  was  pure  advertisement  for  thy  fine 
cookery." 

"  My  Towhead,"  she  whispered,  "  my  true 
mate  and  my  dear." 

When,  shortly,  her  dusty  postman  went 
tramping  out  and  in,  great  peacefulness  within 
his  heart  and  upon  his  pleasant  countenance, 
lords  and  ladies  had  to  wait  until  he  met  due 
honors.  The  world  thought  it  an  odd  choice 


Heart's  Dearest  369 

for  a  handsome  woman  like  Veronique,  who 
with  her  neat  income  might  really  have  looked 
higher.  With  that  business,  she  could  have 
secured  a  very  respectable  sort  of  merchant,  or 
a  well-to-do  if  small  hotel  keeper.  Still  as  Tiber 
seemed  to  interfere  not  at  all  in  her  delectable 
mission,  the  world  concerned  itself  little  with 
him,  and  few  suspected  the  restfulness,  the 
strength  and  beauty  of  their  companionship. 
Working  girls  flocked  to  Vroni  as  needles  to 
the  magnet.  She  seemed  always  to  have  time 
for  them,  and  her  keen  insight  read  their  na 
tures  and  their  needs.  Maids  fresh  from  the 
country  and  at  a  loss  for  friends  and  amuse 
ment,  found  both  in  her  pleasant  quarters; 
where  she  tempted  them  with  sweets,  probed 
their  foolish  hearts,  steered  them  adroitly  past 
thin  ice,  gained  their  confidence  and  affection, 
gave  them  good  bits  of  happiness,  and  with 
music  and  brightness  tided  over  lonely  and 
dangerous  Sundays.  Generous  to  wayfarers, 
kind  and  pitiful  to  sorrow  and  stupidity,  she 
had  small  mercy  upon  certain  forms  of  care 
less  and  brutal  selfishness.  Occasionally  her 
words,  with  many  an  odd  sapristi  and  sapre- 
lottc,  fell  like  biting  hail  upon  the  head  of 
some  young  working  man,  and  still  more  sav- 
24 


370  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

agcly  upon  ungentle  gentlemen.  Often  she 
and  her  towhead  went  late  at  night  "  fishing  " 

o  o 

in  dark  streets  and  parks.  In  the  course  of 
years  many  strange  and  pitiful  fellow-crea 
tures —  men,  women,  and  little  children  —did 
they  find  to  succor  and  to  comfort. 

In  their  manifold  quiet  schemes,  one  other 
worked  with  them,  the  Comtesse  Nclka.  The 
views  which  they  shared  and  which  informed 
their  endeavor  would  have  been  pronounced 
at  Court  distinctly  destructive  to  the  well-being 
of  society.  Perhaps  to  the  extremely  minute 
human  fraction  known  under  that  head  at 
Courts,  those  views  may  not  have  been  inor 
dinately  flattering,  but  no  more  were  they  in 
imical;  while  to  the  vast  proportion  outside 
the  pale,  they  were  of  that  loving  and  pitiful 
quality  that  leads  of  necessity  to  unwearying 
brotherly  deed. 

The  Countess  von  Vallade,  observing  now 
and  then  a  mere  superficial  fact,  thought  Nelka 
a  trifle  eccentric  in  these  matters.  For  what, 
she  would  like  to  inquire,  were  the  number 
less  charitable  Clubs  and  Societies?  Besides, 
nothing  was  so  unwise  as  to  play  special  prov 
idence,  and  transplant  people  suddenly  here 
and  there  to  distant  towns,  and  set  them  learn- 


Heart's  Dearest  371 

ing  this  and  that.  So  much  notice  was  apt  to 
spoil  them,  and  such  projects  never  turned  out 
agreeably  and  as  one  expected.  She  had  no 
objection  to  Veronique.  On  the  contrary,  she 
was  racy, —  many  found  her  most  fascinating ; 
of  course  in  her  profession  inimitable  —  unap 
proachable.  That  the  countess  had  always 
declared.  Nor  had  she  ever  been  so  indis 
creet  as  to  mention  Vroni's  youthful  flightiness 
and  her  fattx  pas.  But  Nelka  seemed  to  go 
there  oftener  than  to  her  friends,  too  much 
was  too  much;  then  some  things  they  at 
tempted  the  countess  must  really  pronounce 
excessive. 

To  which  Nelka  would  respond  simply :  — 

"  Vroni  and  I  both  think  we  have  good  rea 
son." 

The  countess  was,  in  fact,  not  greatly  exer 
cised.  Nelka  in  her  position  could  after  all 
give  tone  in  any  fashion  she  fancied,  and  a 
little  eccentricity  was  rather  chic.  Then  she 
neglected  nothing  indispensable  in  the  way  of 
social  functions,  if  she  avoided  much  for  which 
the  countess  herself  had  interest. 

Many  painful  experiences  had  fallen  to  that 
lady's  lot.  Benno  was  shot  in  a  peculiarly 
ugly  sort  of  duel,  and  his  loss  was  a  great  grief 


Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

to  them  all.  Knod,  for  certain  excesses  which 
even  the  army  could  not  countenance,  was 
cashiered.  Count  Vallade  had  resigned  on 
account  of  failing  eyesight.  All  in  all,  the 
countess  could  not  be  thankful  enough  that 
Nelka  was  so  well  established  in  life.  Some 
times  the  countess  said  "  established,"  some 
times  "  settled  "  or  "  provided  for."  Whatever 
she  said,  she  meant  that  she  was  delighted  and 
proud  that  Nelka  was  the  wife  of  Baron  Frege. 

The  countess  was  more  than  content  with 
Nelka's  society,  with  her  gentle  and  affectionate 
consideration.  There  never  was  so  devoted  a 
daughter.  Then  her  tact  with  her  father. 
Then  one  of  her  carriages,  always  at  the  count 
ess's  disposal,  —  really  providential,  since  they 
were  obliged  to  give  up  their  own.  And  never 
did  the  mother  notice  that  in  her  presence  her 
amiable  daughter  spoke  of  nothing  near  her 
heart. 

Vroni  sat  smiling  over  a  hortatory  letter 
from  Sebastian.  Since  wedlock  had  bestowed 
upon  her  a  modicum  of  character  and  virtue, 
he  was  good  enough  to  send  her  reams  of 
instruction  as  to  the  management  of  her  chil 
dren.  Hearing  a  knock,  she  glanced  up  care 
lessly.  Comtesse  Nelka,  very  pale  and  beauti- 


Heart's  Dearest  373 

ful,  entered,  and  Vroni,  with  one  look  at  her 
face,  sprang  forward.  Without  a  word,  Nelka 
put  a  newspaper  into  her  friend's  hand. 

Vroni  gave  a  marked  passage  a  swift  glance, 
dropped  upon  the  floor,  laid  her  head  upon 
the  comtesse's  knee,  and  wept  passionately. 

"  God  forgive  me,"  she  exclaimed,  "  but 
He  's  killed  the  wrong  man  !  " 

Nelka  sat  quite  still  except  for  a  slow  shiver 
now  and  then,  and  the  soft  and  regular  move 
ment  of  her  hand  smoothing  Vroni's  hair. 
A  stranger  entering  would  have  inferred  the 
kneeling  woman  was  the  chief  sufferer. 

At  length  the  comtesse  spoke,  faintly  but 
with  calm :  — 

"  I  have  known  it  a  week,  Vroni.  I  could 
not  come  before." 

Vroni  sobbed  on,  vehement  and  inconsol 
able,  muttering  broken  and  fierce  little  arraign 
ments  of  the  deity ;  but,  presumably,  our  petty 
notions  of  Ihe-majeste  do  not  prevail  in  the 
vast  Beyond. 

"Waldemar  sent  it  with    this   letter,"    said 
the  gentle    voice.     "  The  others  do  not  know, 
-that  is,  I  think  not,"  she  amended. 

Vroni  glanced  at  the  letter,  lifted  the  fallen 
paper,  read  the  marked  paragraph  to  the  end, 


374  Dionysius  the  Weaver's 

and  with  a  complete  change  of  expression 
cried :  - 

"A  great  and  gallant  death,  —  right  nobly 
for  a  friend  !  Ha,  't  is  a  blame  to  weep  for 
such  a  man." 

Nelka's  smile  was  like  nothing  Vroni  had 
ever  known  except  some  ineffable  music  she 
once  heard. 

In  long  retrospection  the  two  beheld  the 
intricate  weaving  subtly  woven  by  the  years, 
and  were  still  as  in  a  church.  At  last 
Vroni  raised  her  wet  eyes  and  murmured  ar 
dently:  — 

"T  is  braver  than  a  hero's  death,  the  life  my 
gracious,  dearest  comtesse  lives.  While  Count 
Vallade  has  his  angel  nigh  at  hand  he  will 
never  quite  despair.  Truly  he  doth  wear  more 
of  peace  on  his  fine  countenance  than  in  the 
old  troublous  days  I  do  remember  of,  —  such 
rare  comfort  and  companionship  hath  the  poor 
blind  gentleman." 

Nelka  stooped  and  kissed  her  cheek,  and 
again  sat  motionless  except  for  a  repressed 
sigh  or  a  long  shiver  now  and  then  until  she 
said  tranquilly:  — 

"  Dear,  let  me  see  the  children  one  instant 
before  I  go." 


Heart's  Dearest  375 

They  came,  Nita  blithe,  Dion  reluctant;  his 
thought  remote,  in  his  eyes  a  listening  look,  in 
his  hand  a  crumpled  bit  of  paper  scribbled 
with  bars  and  notes. 

For  Dion  became  a  great  musician,  and  out 
of  gloom  and  sweetness  spoke  mightily  to  the 
sorrowing  hearts  of  men. 


THE   END 


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